
Class 

Book- VX.I^ 

GoB#tW 



COFffilGHT OEFOEm 






HARVARD PLAYS 



EDITED BY 

GEORGE P. BAKER 

PROFESSOR OF DRAMATIC LITERATURE, IIARVARD UNIVERSITY 



PLAYS OF THE 

47 WORKSHOP 



c \st ssM-: 



THREE PILLS IN A BOTTLE 

By Rachel Lyman Field 

"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

By Hubert Osborne 

TWO CROOKS AND A LADY 

By Eugene Pillot 

FREE SPEECH 

By William L. Prosser 



NEW YORK 
BRENTANOS 

1918 






Copyright, 1918 
By Brentanos 



JUN 20 1918 



THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. 



Qa ° 488U a |^ 



1^0 | 



Attention is called to the penalties provided by law for any 
infringements of the dramatist 's rights, as follows : 

"Sec. 49GG: — Any person publicly performing or representing 
any dramatic or musical composition for which copyright has 
been obtained, without the consent of the proprietor of said 
dramatic or musical composition, or his heirs and assigns, shall 
be liable for damages therefor, such damages in all cases to be 
assessed at such sum, not less than one hundred dollars for the 
first and fifty dollars for every subsequent performance, as to 
the court shall appear to be just. If the unlawful performance 
and representation be wilful and for profit, such person or persons 
shall be guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction be im- 
prisoned for a period not exceeding one year." — U. S. Revised 
Statutes, Title 60, Chap. 3. 



INTRODUCTION 

All the plays in this volume were originally 
produced by The 47 Workshop, — not " The 47 
Workshops " as one or two newspapers, appar- 
ently recalling Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, 
have called the organization. The somewhat 
homely title means just what it suggests. This 
is a " Workshop," because anyone who believes 
he has ability in any of the arts connected with 
the theatre — acting, scene or costume designing, 
lighting, directing, or playwriting — may here 
prove his quality. It is " The 47 Workshop " 
because it grew from a course in playwriting, 
English 47, for many years offered by the Depart- 
ment of English of Harvard University. 

The 47 Workshop, however, is not in the usual 
sense a theatre. It has no wish to revolutionize 
anything. It masks no scheme for a civic or 
community theatre. Its main purpose is to try 
out interesting plays written in the courses in 
Dramatic Technique at Harvard University and 
Radcliffe College. Though it does reserve the 
right from time to time to revive some classic 
like " Maitre Patelin," some curiosity like the 
" Revesby Sword Play," or to produce some not- 
able foreign play not likely to be seen on the pro- 
fessional stage of this country, such as the Ice- 
landic " Eyvind of the Hills," its usual order of 
[vii] 



INTRODUCTION 

election is: first, plays recently written in one of 
the courses ; second, plays written by a past mem- 
ber of these courses within five years after com- 
pleting study at Harvard or Radcliffe; third, any 
other plays by Harvard or Radcliffe graduates ; 
fourth, revivals of dramatic classics or curiosities, 
or productions of foreign plays. 

The 47 Workshop was founded in 1912 to meet 
a need steadily more evident in the courses in 
dramatic composition. Plays of real merit and 
evidently ready for professional production found 
an opening sooner or later, but each year others 
were written, full of promise, but not likely to find 
a ready market because of their unusual subjects, 
some peculiarity of treatment, or technical faults 
which the author, in spite of class criticism, could 
not see. What was needed to prove the availabil- 
ity of some of these for the general public, or to 
round others into final shape, was merely an op- 
portunity to see the play adequately acted before 
an audience, sympathetic yet genuinely critical. 
Just because The 47 Workshop, a local response 
to a wide-felt need, began in the simplest way and 
has grown into admitted effectiveness under con- 
ditions often very unfavorable, its history may be 
useful to persons who are dreaming of some such 
place for trying out plays, or are wondering why 
some experimental theatre in which they are inter- 
ested is not succeeding. 

The 47 Workshop began with a guarantee for 
one year of five hundred dollars, given by past 
members of the courses in dramatic composition. 
For that sum three long original plays were pro- 

[ viii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

duced, — six performances in all. The theatre, 
seating comfortably only some two hundred at 
each performance, was put at the disposal of The 
Workshop by Radcliffe College at the expense 
only of lighting and service. The small stage is 
really a lecture platform, originally surrounded 
by steel-girdered walls which have been slightly 
readjusted to make giving plays a little less diffi- 
cult. Dressing rooms have been inadequate. Any 
painting of scenery must for lack of space be done 
away from the theatre. Because this was avail- 
able for only two rehearsals before each perform- 
ance, such work must for some years be done in 
a room the floor space of which bore no relation 
to the stage to be used. In other words, The 47 
Workshop began much as any organization will 
begin which, having no special building, must give 
its plays in a hall on a stage primarily intended 
for lectures, must rehearse where it can, and must 
store its belongings here and there. 

The fundamental principle of The 47 Workshop 
— and to this it has held steadity throughout its 
history — has been that everyone from director to 
stage hands must cooperate in putting the play 
upon the stage as the author sees it. A play is 
not accepted unless in itself worthy and not until 
the director believes the author has done all he 
can for it at the moment, and needs a production 
if he is to round it into final shape. Before any 
final plans as to setting, costuming, and lighting 
are made, the author is carefully consulted, as he 
is in regard to the casting of the play, — though 
the director has the last word in this matter, 
[ix] 



INTRODUCTION 

The author is expected to be present at all re- 
hearsals, and between each rehearsal and the next 
to keep the director informed as to any sugges- 
tions he may have to make. Except by special 
permission, he is expected to deal with the actors, 
only through the director. If he has had experi- 
ence in coaching plays, he is asked to take charge of 
some of the rehearsals, usually the earlier, when 
the actors are studying the broader aspects of 
their characters and the general atmosphere of the 
piece. When a play is once approved for pro- 
duction, changes are avoided in order that the 
author may make them not because advised so to 
do by anyone immediately connected with the pro- 
duction, but because he is convinced by the con- 
sensus of opinion in his audience that such changes 
are imperative. In other words, any attempt to 
relegate the author to the position of some one 
doubtless necessary in the writing of the play but 
thereafter more desirable absent than present, is 
frowned on. Unquestionably a producer knows 
best how to get the effects an author desires, but 
just what these effects are the author surely knows 
best. The result of this policy has been great 
loyalty to The Workshop on the part of its 
authors. 

It is a corollary of what has just been said, 
that The 47 Workshop believes " The play 's the 
thing." The curse of many an experimental 
theatre is amateurishness — the spirit which 
makes the play merely an occasion for social 
meetings ; which puts the actors ahead of the play ; 
and which treats lateness and irregularity in at- 

[x] 



INTRODUCTION 

tendance, noisy rehearsals, and a superficial study 
of a part as quite natural. Most amateurs speak 
lines; they do not act, in the sense that they re- 
make themselves into the characters of the play. 
Ask most amateurs to sacrifice something to the 
ensemble, or to play in a scene which they believe 
could easily be bettered, and they are likely to be 
discontented or rebellious. Such an organization 
as The 47 Workshop could not, of course, be main- 
tained by actors with any such standards. It was 
necessary therefore slowly to gather together a 
group of actors who would regard the play as of 
first importance. Harvard and Radcliffe were, of 
course, most frequently called on, but anyone who 
has cared to offer his or her services, and who 
could show some previous experience, has been 
given an opportunity. Little by little, as these 
persons — they range from children to people of 
middle age — have proved their competence, they 
have been invited to become members of The 47 
Workshop Company. When elected to this, a 
member agrees to act when called on; to do his 
utmost in helping to produce the play as the 
author sees it; to play any part the director as- 
signs ; not to act elsewhere without permission ; 
and when acting elsewhere, to see that he is ac- 
credited on any program to The 47 Workshop. 
The election comes by recommendation from the 
executive committee to a sub-committee composed 
of the director and two representatives from the 
company. The decision of this sub-committee is 
final. Two members of the company, one man and 
one woman, represent it in the executive com- 
[xi] 



INTRODUCTION 

mittee, which governs The Workshop. To-day 
members of standing in the company can be de- 
pended upon to see that any neophytes strictly 
regard the traditions which have been built up as 
to promptness and quiet at rehearsals, speedy 
learning of parts, and subordination of self to the 
ensemble. The loyalty and the growing skill of 
this company, some thirty in number, are largely 
responsible for whatever success The 47 Work- 
shop has had. 

Early in the history of the organization it be- 
came evident that there should be an artistic 
director who, after preliminary conference with 
the author and the director, would supervise the 
setting, costuming, and lighting of each produc- 
tion. Immediately the desirability of this step 
was proved by the disappearance of clashing 
colors, costumes that did not accord with the set- 
ting, and other artistic flaws previously caused 
by carelessness, differing tastes among the actors, 
and even some native obstinacy. As the organiza- 
tion has grown, it has become necessary to put 
some one in charge of the increasingly large 
amount of scenery, who shall be able to say at a 
moment's notice what is in hand which may be 
used as it is or when made over, and what must be 
specially built and painted. It is now possible to 
paint within The Workshop practically all the 
scenery used. The person in charge of this work, 
like the person in charge of costumes, and the per- 
son in charge of lighting, works under the super- 
vision of the artistic director. It has become neces- 
sary to put some special person, made responsible 
[xii] 



INTRODUCTION 

to the stage manager, in charge of small proper- 
ties, who gives out and replaces all stock proper- 
ties and catalogues the new. It has been possible 
slowly to replace hired stage hands by volunteers, 
and to shape them into a group analogous to the 
company, chosen by election after proved service. 
They are represented on the executive committee 
by the stage manager, and from them stage man- 
agers and property managers are first chosen. In 
other words, paid assistance has been eliminated 
slowly, so that from the writing of the play to the 
dropping of the final curtain — through acting, 
directing, scene and costume designing or making, 
lighting, make-up, and scene-shifting — The 47 
Workshop now depends upon its own members. 

An executive committee, composed of the direc- 
tor, the secretary-treasurer, and the heads of all 
working committees, as well as two representatives 
from the company, guide and control the fortunes 
of The Workshop. Naturally the heads of the 
various departments change from year to year, 
and sometimes oftener, but a small group of three 
or four have worked together from the very be- 
ginning and thus have been able to see that, while 
there has been growth, there has been no danger- 
ous departure from the original purposes for 
which The Workshop was founded. 

Membership rests on one of the basal principles 
of the organization. The audience is confined by 
seating conditions to four hundred — for each 
evening, two hundred. Membership comes through 
an election committee. Candidates for the audi- 
ence must be proposed and seconded by members, 
[ xiii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

with a statement of qualifications, for every regu- 
lar member before admission is supposed to have 
shown some special interest in the kind of pro- 
ducing and plays which The Workshop provides. 
Persons who might come, as do most audiences at 
amateur theatricals, to admire and praise un- 
thinkingly their friends among the actors; per- 
sons who are interested only in seeing their own 
plays, or plays of a similar kind ; persons who cul- 
tivate the bizarre in plays or indeed any one par- 
ticular kind of play — all such are not welcome. 
On the other hand, people who care deeply enough 
for the theatre to be interested in seeing plays of 
promise rounded into shape; people who are in- 
terested in all kinds of experimentation in the arts 
of the theatre — all such are very welcome. Every 
member is expected to contribute something. In 
the first place, he agrees to hand in a written com- 
ment on each production, within a week of the 
final performance. Secondly, he marks on a mem- 
bership card the one or more activities of The 
Workshop in which he is willing to share. Here 
he is given a wide choice. These conditions mean 
that, even apart from the criticisms, a large por- 
tion of the audience annually cooperate in the 
work of producing the plays. 

All criticisms are handed in signed. When the 
director has read them, the names are removed 
and the comments handed to the author of the 
play in question. In later conference with the 
director, the author decides what changes must 
be made in his play in the light of the criticisms. 
These are as a group always helpful. Every play 
[xiv] 



INTRODUCTION 

in this volume has been thus rewritten, and the 
Craig Prize play, " Between the Lines," as well 
as the Washington Square success, " Plots and 
Playwrights," both originally produced by The 
47 Workshop, were before professional produc- 
tion rewritten under these conditions. 

As the possessions of The 47 Workshop in the 
way of scenery and properties became too numer- 
ous and cumbersome to be stored away in odd 
places, Harvard College put storage and rehearsal 
space at its disposal. All plays are now prepared 
for nearly three weeks in a rehearsal room and 
then transferred to the theatre at Radcliffe for 
two dress rehearsals and two performances. For 
two nights before the first dress rehearsal the 
stage manager and his force are fitting the set- 
tings to the stage, and seeing that all properties 
are on hand and in place. The aim is to have the 
stage, so far as scenery, properties, and lighting 
are concerned, in such condition that the director 
can at this first dress rehearsal really rehearse, 
without long waits for the setting of scenery or 
the right placing of properties. Of course, this 
desired result is possible only when there is a 
spirit of complete cooperation on the part of the 
artistic force and all who are working under the 
stage manager for the desired total result — the 
best production of the play in question that The 
Workshop force can give. People who wish, cost 
what it may to the author or the play, to exploit 
themselves or their special gifts in settings, cos- 
tuming, lighting or any other form of stage-craft, 
have no proper place in work of this kind. They 
[xv] 



INTRODUCTION 

should have their own theatres, to which the audi- 
ence admittedly comes to see their work. 

One of the chief difficulties in the way of most 
experimental theatres is their financing, for a 
theatre easily becomes a place of extravagance 
and waste. Experience has shown clearly that The 
Workshop, with its system of trained volunteer 
aid, can give an adequate performance of a three- 
act to five-act modern play, for approximately 
three hundred and fifty dollars. A program of 
three or four one-act plays or a costume play 
naturally costs somewhat more. That is, with an 
annual income varying from twelve hundred dol- 
lars to never more than two thousand dollars at 
the most, The 47 Workshop has been able during 
a season to produce four programs at the least — 
one of these of short plays — and at the most five 
programs, two of these of short plays ; a total 
of, say, three long plays and seven one-act plays. 
This has meant in recent years no painful economy 
such as any organization might be unwilling to 
undergo, but merely careful cooperation to see 
that no money is wasted. No one is asked to pay 
a membership fee, for it has seemed to the execu- 
tive committee that regular dues might lead mem- 
bers to feel that their preferences in types of plays 
to be produced should be considered. This com- 
mittee has felt that only with an absolutely free 
hand could they treat with equality the many 
different kinds of play written in the courses in 
playwriting. However, members, knowing that 
the means of the organization have always been 
limited, have sent in contributions when they 
[xvi] 



INTRODUCTION 

pleased for the amount they pleased. As a re- 
sult, since the first year The 47 Workshop has 
been supported by large and small gifts from its 
members, only to a very slight extent solicited. 
These solicited subscriptions have come from mem- 
bers who, individually, have guaranteed particular 
productions by subscribing the three hundred and 
fifty dollars necessary. With the approval of the 
executive committee, such a giver has named the 
production for someone in the past connected with 
The 47 Workshop, or if he preferred, for some 
noted actor or actress. The history of The 47 
Workshop has proved that what is vital in such 
experimentation is not a large sum of money, but 
enough to pay expenses without a scrimping that 
cheapens the artistic results, until such time as 
three or four hundred people become convinced 
that the organization stands for something they 
wish to see and is thriftily managed. They will 
then readily provide what funds are necessary. 
In order to produce this desired state of mind, the 
play should be made of chief importance, first, 
last, and always. This means that the acting, 
the scenery, the lighting, and the costuming must 
as soon as possible be made adequate, and soon 
thereafter imaginative and contributive. What 
kills experimental theatre after experimental thea- 
tre is waste where there should be judicious econ- 
omy and a desire to branch out too soon into all 
the possible activities of a theatre. The experi- 
ence of The Workshop in its six years of existence 
has shown that, if the main emphasis is kept on 
the play, an audience will permit a slow growth 
[ xvii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

toward desired ideals. It will allow, too, a shifting 
of the chief accomplishment — from acting to set- 
ting, to lighting, or to some other activity — as 
special conditions in a particular year make it 
necessary to develop one department more than 
another. Do the best that conditions permit with 
the play in question, and an audience which comes 
for the purposes which bring the Workshop audi- 
ence together will be both loyal and appreciative. 

The 47 Workshop is, of course, merely one type 
of several which have developed in the recent 
rapid evolution in experimental theatres. Like 
many others, it probably would never have been 
founded had not the Abbey Theatre, Dublin, 
under the brilliant and wise guidance of W. B. 
Yeats and Lady Gregory, shown how much may 
be done from the smallest beginnings, if courage 
and wisdom assist. Of course, it has had to adapt 
to its conditions many ideas given it by the Dub- 
lin company. In turn, its history has led directly 
or indirectly to the forming of a number of similar 
organizations, such as The Theatre Workshop of 
New York, The Playshop in Chicago, The Vassar 
Workshop, etc. Just because there has been wide- 
spread interest in possible adaptation of its 
methods to conditions elsewhere, general to a com- 
munity or special to school or college, it has 
seemed not immodest to give its history with the 
detail of this introduction. 

Surely it is undeniable that such a laboratory 

is indispensable for the swift training of young 

dramatists or possible stage directors. Without it 

a dramatist waits to see his work in action until he 

[ xviii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

is fortunate enough to get a professional produc- 
tion. In many cases this means that all the weeks 
before the play is brought into New York or one 
of the leading cities are spent in reshaping the 
play by what the author and others are able to 
guess the audience thinks of the play. A large 
proportion of these changes, if not all, may be 
forestalled in such an experimental theatre, for 
most of them concern matters of clear exposition, 
right emphasis, convincing motivation, confused 
structure, or strong prejudices on the part of 
any audience overlooked by the author. When 
a play professionally produced has a dubi- 
ous reception, everyone from call boy to actor 
falls to guessing why — and few guess rightly. 
There is no guessing involved in rewriting with 
the aid of such an audience as The 47 Workshop 
provides. There people trained in the theatre, 
amateurs of the theatre, specialists in different 
arts connected with the theatre, persons entirely 
competent to stand for " the general public," all 
make their individual comments in their individual 
ways. From the total result, even if at first it 
may seem confusing to the author, there come 
definite impressions as to what must be done with 
the play to make it serviceable for a larger public. 
Ask any author who has had the experience and 
he will tell you that this is true. Undoubtedly 
other changes may become necessary when such 
a play is put into professional performance before 
a larger public, but only a very small proportion 
of change will be necessary as compared with what 
otherwise would have been the case. After a 
[xix] 



INTRODUCTION 

famous play contest a manager said, " The plays 
are divisible into two great groups — those tech- 
nically well written with nothing to say that is 
fresh or significant, and those containing admir- 
able subject matter, with good characterization 
and dialogue, but so little fitted for the stage that 
they cannot be considered." Think what a num- 
ber of organizations like The 47 Workshop, scat- 
tered over the country, might do for inexperienced 
dramatists ! What might they not save in pro- 
found disappointment to the authors who try 
rapidly to remake their plays before the public, 
what in exasperation to managers who have vainly 
risked tinkering a play into shape before it meets 
the New York public. History has shown that 
though certain men and women prefer to do their 
revising before the general public, most are con- 
fused, and some are even made sterile by the 
sense that so much is at stake and by the intense 
pressure. Do not the six years of The 47 Work- 
shop show that such an experimental theatre is 
worth attempting wherever a group of people 
honestly more interested in the arts of the theatre 
than in any personal exploitation may be gathered 
together, and do they not show that with patience 
and unwillingness to grant defeat their organiza- 
tion is likely to win, after a few years, its place in 
the community? 

It will not hurt any ambitious young playwright 
to try his hand at every one of the activities con- 
nected with such an organization as The 47 Work- 
shop, though it is not easy to make him under- 
stand this. If he has shifted scenery, he will 
[xx] 



INTRODUCTION 

make few, if any, unnecessary demands for elabo- 
rate and heavily constructed pieces. When he 
has had his part in the handling of stage proper- 
ties, he will not call for them to an unnecessary 
extent, nor will he clutter his stage with what is 
artistically undesirable. When he has assisted 
in lighting, he will be less likely to ask the light 
man to provide the atmosphere and the subtler 
gradations of feeling which it is his business to 
provide by his text. Studying rehearsals, he will 
better understand the value of the spoken word, 
and will come to see why it is not wise, as a rule, 
merely to sketch in his characters, trusting that 
he can be provided with so admirable a cast that 
each actor will fill out his part in a way perfectly 
satisfactory to the somewhat lazy author. In- 
deed, he will learn a hundred and one details as 
to the absolute essentiality of writing with actors 
in mind rather than for a reading public. Never 
learning all this, many of our authors find them- 
selves relegated to the closet. Of course, such an 
experimental theatre is at best merely a bridge 
from inexperience to the wider and still more en- 
lightening experience of production in the profes- 
sional theatre, but a bridge is a quicker and far 
more convenient method of crossing a stream than 
jumping as best one can from stone to stone. The 
latter way often means a ducking. 

Similarly, though probably not to the same ex- 
tent, such an experimental theatre is of large value 
to the young man or young woman who hopes 
ultimately to become manager of a theatre. On 
a small scale the rudiments of the business may 
[xxi] 



INTRODUCTION 

be learned, and he who would run a theatre effec- 
tively and without undue waste must at some time 
come to understand the elements, at least, of the 
various arts called on whenever any play is suc- 
cessfully produced. Nothing could be of better 
promise for the American drama of the next gen- 
eration than that all over our country young men 
and women who have learned the rudiments in some 
experimental theatre should, after necessary years 
of intervening experience in subordinate positions 
of the professional theatre, pass on into profes- 
sional managements. We need badly to develop 
in this country a group of men and women as 
nearly corresponding as our conditions will permit 
to the intend ants and regis seurs of the conti- 
nental theatres — men and women managing 
theatres because from their youth they have loved 
and studied the theatre and the drama; people of 
cultivation, determined, while they keep the public 
thoroughly entertained and amused, to give it as 
much of the best in the past and the present of 
the drama as their public can be induced to accept. 
These are the conditions which most speedily will 
give us American drama able in the number and 
quality of its plays to hold its own with the drama 
of older nations. It is for these reasons that the 
rapid growth of experimental theatres in this 
country for the past ten years, in spite of some 
bad mistakes and many failures, has been the most 
encouraging theatrical sign of the times. 

One result from this rapid growth is already 
clear. These theatres have greatly encouraged the 
young American dramatist : first, by giving him a 
[xxii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

chance to see many plays he would not otherwise 
have seen which have helped him to standardize his 
work; and secondly, by offering him an opportun- 
ity he would not otherwise have had to be heard 
and to learn by his mistakes. All this is particu- 
larly true of the one-act play. Not long ago we 
knew it as the curtain-raiser or the after-piece, and 
all theatrical wiseacres felt sure that a group of 
one-act plays could not make a successful program. 
To-day the one-act play in this country is popular, 
particularly with audiences of the experimental 
theatres. It is trying to phrase many moods and 
varied conditions of life. It is attempting many 
forms, even the freest, in order exactly to put 
before an audience what the author feels about 
his subject. Already there is a considerable 
group of one-act plays written in the last ten 
years which hold their own reasonably well when 
compared with the general output in the same 
period of time of European one-act plays. 

The contents of this volume are offered in no 
way as masterpieces or even as models. They, like 
the contents of the companion volume of plays 
first produced by the Harvard Dramatic Club, are 
certainly interesting as plays originally written 
in a course in dramatic composition, and after 
trying out, rewritten under the conditions of The 
47 Workshop. They are offered to the general 
public as a small contribution to the widespread 
recent accomplishment of the one-act play in this 
country. They have at least stood the ultimate 
test of a play — they have been widely given and 

weil liked - George P. Baker. 

[ xxiii ] 



THREE PILLS IN A BOTTLE 
A FANTASY IN ONE ACT 

BY 

RACHEL LYMAN FIELD 



CHARACTERS 

Tony Sims 

The Widow Sims, his mother 

A Middle-Aged Gentleman 

His Soul 

A Scissors Grindeb 

His Soul 

A Scrub Woman 

Heb Soul 



First produced by The 47 Workshop, November 16 and 17, 
1917. Copyright, 1917, by Rachel Lyman Field. Permission 
for amateur or professional performances of any kind must first 
be obtained from The 47 Workshop, Harvard College, Cam- 
bridge, Mass. Moving Picture rights reserved. 

Attention is called to the penalties provided by law for any 
infringements of the dramatist's rights, as follows: 

"Sec. 4966: — Any person publicly performing or representing 
any dramatic or musical composition for which copyright has 
been obtained, without the consent of the proprietor of said 
dramatic or musical composition, or his heirs and assigns, shall 
be liable for damages therefor, such damages in all cases to be 
assessed at such sum, not less than one hundred dollars for the 
first and fifty dollars for every subsequent performance, as to the 
court shall appear to be just. If the unlawful performance and 
representation be wilful and for profit, such person or persons 
shall be guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction be im- 
prisoned for a period not exceeding one year." — U. S. Revised 
Statutes, Title 60, Chap. 3. 



THREE PILLS IN A BOTTLE 

Time: Now or then. Place: Anyzvhere or 
nowhere. Scene: A room in the Widow Sims' 
house. The stage is dim when the' curtain rises, 
but gradually it grows brighter, till the room is 
full of yellow sunlight, falling in sharp, fantastic 
patches on floor and walls. The day is so warm 
that the two windows, a small, high one at the left, 
and a large one at the back which overlooks the 
street, are open. Through this we see rows of 
houses opposite, their poim\ted roofs and faded 
colors making a brave showing in the hot sun- 
shine of the street. At the right is a door, open- 
ing on the street, and at the back a substantial 
cupboard with two doors is built into the left 
corner. Over this is a shelf, containing various 
small articles — a few toys, some bits of china, 
etc. A wooden washtub, large and green, stands 
in the other corner. The only pieces of furniture 
are a table and two chairs, and a larger chair 
drawn* up close to the window at the back center. 

In this, Tony, the Widow Sims' little ten-year- 
old boy is sleeping, cm old patchwork quilt wrapped 
about him. His cheeks are very red and there are 
dark circles under his eyes. At intervals he moves 
restlessly, muttering vaguely. 

Presently the Widow Sims comes tip-toemg in. 
She is a small, colorless person, with an habitual 

■ [3] 



THREE PILLS 

air of apology for something — she is not quite 
sure what! The door creaks to after her, and 
Tony opens his eyes. 

Widow Sims [bending over him regretfully] 
Dear, dear, 't is a pity that squeakin' door should 
'a waked you. I thought you 'd be sleeping all 
the morning while I 'm out workin'. [She kisses 
him.] 

Tony. Oh, I 'm not sleepy, only hot [turn- 
ing his head slowly toward the window], and all 
the houses over there are making faces at me! 

Widow Sims [shaking her head] What a child ! 
[She sighs and fumbles in her pocket. Then her 
face brightens as she pulls out a small glass bottle.] 
Never mind, Tony, the Doctor 's just been giving 
me a fine cure for your fever — three days now, 
and you '11 be well. 

Tony. Three days ? That 's a long time to 
wait ! 

Widow Sims. It 's a very wonderful cure he 
said. Three pills, one for each day. [She holds 
out the pills on the palm of her hand.] 

Tony [peering at them] Yes, I can see them, 
but what will they do to me? 

Widow Sims. He said the yellow one will take 
away all the pain from your head [dropping it 
in the bottle']. Heaven be praised for that! The 
red one will make you grow tall and strong [put- 
ting back the red one], 

Tony. Tall enough to reach the moon, mother? 

Widow Sims. When you take the brown one 
your eyes will no longer ache [putting back the 

[4] . 



IN A BOTTLE 

brown pill] and the near things and the far things 
will both look very clear. 

Tony [sitting up and reaching for the bottle] 
When can I take them? Now? 

Widow Sims. No, no, I 'm to give you one 
each night the fever lasts [she crosses and puts 
the bottle on the shelf] — first the red, then 
the yellow, and then the brown. 

[Tony turns away wearily, and the Widow goes 
to the table, putting some sewing materials in a 
bag.] 

Widow Sims. They 're very grand pills, Tony, 
and I paid two pounds for them. That 's a great 
deal for a poor woman like me to pay ! 

Tony. Is it? 

Widow Sims. Three years I 've been saving 
that, but you don't get much sewing all day, when 
you 've never a man to come home after a day's 
w r ork w T ith the silver in his pockets. 

Tony. I 've got silver in mine. [He takes out 
imaginary money, pretending to pile it on the sill. 
Widow Sims starts at his words and takes a step 
towards him, then stops sadly, and goes back to 
the table with a sigh.] 

Widow Sims. Well, well, I must be off now 
[gathering up her things and going toward him] . 

Tony [catching her hand as she passes] Where 
are you going to-day? To the big house that is 
so high up you can see the hills humping them- 
selves up on top of each other, and farther away 
the sea that stops just where the sky begins? 

Widow Sims [half to herself] Was ever such a 
boy for remembering? [Kneeling by him, and 

[5] 



THREE PILLS 

wrapping the quilt about him more carefully.] 
No, it 's not there I 'm going. And what '11 you 
be doing while I'm gone? Do you want your 
picture-book? [Tony shakes his head.] Or your 
glass marble? [Tony shakes his head again.] 
Or your tin whistle? 

Tony. No, I don't want any of them. I 'd 
rather play with my friends. 

Widow Sims. Friends? 

Tony [absently] I have so many friends. 

Widow Sims [with a glance of despair] Out 
of his head again. [She strokes his forehead.] 
It 's the fever makes him so queer. [Brightening 
a little] Oh, well, the pills will soon be setting him 
right! [She kisses him and turns to go.] I'll 
be back in time to get your dinner. Good-bye, 
Tony. 

Tony. Good-bye, mother. 

Widow Sims [from the doorway] Mind you 
keep the coverlet wrapped round you ! 

[She exits reluctantly. The sound of her key 
locking the door is distinctly heard. Tony waves 
his hand to her as she passes his window, and she 
throws him a kiss. He sits staring out into the 
street. Presently steps are heard on the pave- 
ment, and the sound of a cane tapping.] 

Tony [listening] Oh, someone 's coming — 
someone with a cane. I can hear it tap-tapping. 

[He leans out to stop the passer-by, who, as we 
see him through the window, proves to be a tall, 
portly, middle-aged gentleman of fifty or more, 
dressed in a beautiful blue coat with wide capes, 
a green vest over which a gold watchchain is 

[6] 



IN A BOTTLE 

draped conspicuously, and a high hat. His air 
is commanding, and he starts sharply as the little 
boy accosts him.] 

Tony. What a beautiful cane ! And the sun 
shining on its gold top ! [Remembering his man- 
ners] Good-day to you, sir. 

Gentleman [annoyed] Good-day, yourself. 

Tony. Won't you come in and play with me? 
I 'm all by myself, no one would disturb us. 

Gentleman. Most extraordinary young ras- 
cal ! Do you think I can stop and chat with every 
impudent little boy I meet? Indeed, no, I have 
a great deal of business on hand ! [He starts to 
move on.] 

Tony. What do you have to do? 

Gentleman [not entirely without pride] I have 
to settle my accounts. 

Tony. What does that mean? 

Gentleman. Well, counting my money for 
one thing. That takes a long time let me tell you ! 

Tony. You must have a lot of money — as 
much as two pounds? 

Gentleman [backing away] Two pounds? 
Two pounds, indeed ! Two tkousand, and more — 

Tony. How did you find it all? 

Gentleman. I did n't find it. I worked for 
it — worked hard all day long. [Shaking his 
cane emphatically.] When the lazy fellows were 
out dancing on the green, or lying on their backs 
in the meadows, / stayed indoors and added long 
columns of figures, and now, when they have 
hardly a copper in their pockets, I have nothing 
to do but count my money ! [He moves away. ] 

en 



THREE PILLS 

Tony. Please come in and play? 

Gentleman. Certainly not ! God bless my 
soul. I have other things to do! [He turns to 

Tony. Your — your soul? Why, that wouldn't 
be busy counting the money, too. would it? 

Gentleman. God bless my soul. i> the boy 
crazy? [Turning on his heel, and laughing skep- 
tically.] I don't possess such a thing! 

Tony. Oh. but you do. You said so twice. 
— you said [imitating him], u God bless my soul." 

Gentleman. That was merely an ejaculation. 

Tony. I never heard of an ejac — an ejac- — , 
but mother says everyone lias a soul. 

Gentleman. Rubbish! 

Tony [leaning foncard rcith both hands on the 
sill] Oh. it you only would — you won't be using 
it, you know ! 

Gentleman [pounding his cane impatiently] 
Rubbish, I said, rubbish ! 

Tony [putting his hand out to detain him] 
I '11 promise not to keep it long. 

Gentleman [is about to push the hand aside, 
then seeing Tony's face he pauses and speaks 
grudgingly in order to get away] Well. yes. yes. 

5, then, but I say frankly I don't know what 
you mean by all this, and what 's more. I don't 
believe you do, either! ; Turning icith an impa- 
tient jerk, and a puzzled shrug of the shoulders] 
Good-day to you. 

Tony [calling after him] Good-bye. 
The Gentleman pi!s*cs on up the street, grum- 
bling, thumping his cane and flapping his hand- 

[8] 



IN A BOTTLE 

kerchief in annoyance. As he disappear a from 
sight a feeble little cough somtds outside, the door 
is pushed slowly open, and a little man in dilapi- 
dated garments pauses timidly on the threshold. 
He shuffles in uncertainly, an undersized, under- 
fed, moth-eaten specimen. In his tattered gar- 
ments he is a ludicrous and half fearful sight. 
His clothes must, at one time, have resembled the 
Middle-Aged Gentleman s, but they have fallen 
vn\to decay; his coat is in rags, the tails of it 
trail behind him forlornly, and one bare toe pro- 
trudes pathetically from his worn shoes. For a 
moment Tony is half afraid of him.] 

Gentleman's Soul [querulously] Well? [Tony 
is still too nonplussed to reply.] [Gentleman * 
Soul, watching him anxiously.] What are you 
going to do with me? [Triumphantly] I 'vc 
got away from him anyway ! 

Tony. I say, you don't belong to the gentle- 
man who just passed by? The one who has all 
that money? 

Gentleman's Soul [vn> a thin, complaining 
whine] I should say I do, and if ever a soul had 
a stingy, cross, cantankerous — 

Tony. But you can't be his Soul ! He was 
big, and he carried the most beautiful cane with 
a gold top, and you — why, you 're all in rags 
and tags like a beggar. You 're so little and 
twisted, your knees knock together, and you 're 
very pale! 

Gentleman's Soul [in a plaintive whine'] Well, 
whose fault is it if I 'm not handsome? I can't 
help that! 

[9] 



THREE PILLS 

Tony. I 'm sorry, but you did surprise me 
so ! Won't you sit down ? 

[The Gentleman's Soul seats himself gingerly, 
m order not to tear his very tender garments, on a 
chair. He huddles his knees close together in an 
effort to hide his rags, tries to smooth his few 
wild, straggling locks of hair, and wheezes a little, 
his breath being short.] 

Gentleman's Soul. Oh, you don't know the 
suffering I undergo with that man ! Why, you 'd 
scarcely believe it, but he has n't given me any- 
thing to eat for days. Consequently, my whole 
system is in a state of collapse. If you had n't 
happened to invite me in to-day, I think* I really 
think, I could n't have kept on being his Soul 
any longer! 

Tony. It must be very hard. Can't you 
make him do anything for you? 

Gentleman's Soul [drawing his chair nearer 
Tony] I used to try — when we were younger — 
before I got in this run-down condition, but he 
was always thinking of his investments — whether 
to buy this, or sell that, and adding up one col- 
umn and then down it again ! Even in my younger 
and healthier days, I could n't distract him, and 
now — [He sobs brokenly, and waves his hands 
in feeble protest.] 

Tony [still puzzled by his strange attire] And 
your clothes are n't a bit like his ! 

Gentleman's Soul. I guess I know that! If 
you had to wear them, you 'd realize what I en- 
dure! [Pointing to his decadent trousers] When 
they first began to get shabby, I begged him to 
[10] 



IN A BOTTLE 

make me some new ones, but instead he began 
patching them — see ! [Displaying several faded 
patches] That was bad enough, but now he 
has n't touched them for so long they 're all worn 
out. I shall be indecent soon ! [His voice breaks 
pathetically.] 

Tony. I 'm so sorry. Can't we make him do 
something? Doesn't he ever notice you? [Gen- 
tleman's Soul shakes his head dolefully.] 

Gentleman's Soul. Never ! I 'm going into 
a decline. [He coughs consumptively , thumpmg 
his chest.] All for lack of food and clothes, and 
— and encouragement ! 

Tony [affected by seeing him so completely 
unmanned^] You would n't be so bad if you could 
just grow sl little. 

Gentleman's Soul. Ye-es, but I 'm getting 
thinner and weaker every day. 

Tony [struck with a bright idea] If you got 
bigger and stronger than he is — then he 'd have 
to notice you ! 

Gentleman's Soul. Oh — oh, when he was a 
boy we were just the same size and we had the 
pleasantest times together. That was before he 
took to making money. 

Tony. What did you do? 

Gentleman's Soul. He let me show him 
things out of doors — squirrels playing in and 
out of the branches [he tries feebly to imitate 
their caperings and the result is pathetic], and 
the silk inside chestnut burrs, and pictures in the 
frost at the roadsides. We could always tell 
stories, too, — not on paper, you know, but here 

[ii] 



THREE PILLS 

[tapping his forehead meaningly]. Oh, those 
were delightful days ! 

Tony [enraptured, repeating his former 
thought] Now if you grew to be his size, you and 
he could be like that again. 

Gentleman's Soul. What 's the use? [In an 
abandonment of woe] Look at me ! 

Tony [perplexed] There ought to be some way. 
There 's Doctors — they make people well — 
they give them pills to take. [At the word " pills," 
he catches his breath, and glances at the bottle 
on the shelf.] 

Gentleman's Soul. Well, a lot of good that 
does me, when I have n't any pills. 

Tony [pointing eagerly to the shelf] But I 
have! I have a pill that makes people big and 
strong — 

Gentleman's Soul [beating his hands together 
in tremulous excitement] Are you sure? 

Tony [nodding] Mother told me it would. 
You '11 grow so tall that at night you '11 be able 
to reach up and pick the stars that have caught 
in the branches of trees ! Oh, I 'm glad I re- 
membered. [Poiiiting to the shelf] You '11 have 
to climb on a chair to reach them — there in that 
glass bottle. 

With difficulty the Gentleman' s Soul drags 
over a chair, clambers on it feebly, and brings 
the bottle to Tony. 

Tony. A red one she said. [Taking it out] 
Yes, here it is ! 

Gentleman's Soul [taking it in his hand and 
scrutinizing it] You 're a very kind little boy. 
[12] 



IN A BOTTLE 

Tony. You 're welcome to the pill, and thank 
you for playing with me. 

Gentleman's Soul [bowing shakily] Perhaps, 
when I 've got my growth, and he \s all nicely 
trained again, we '11 be coming to pay you our 
respects. 

Tony. Good-bye. 

[The Gentleman's Soul has scarcely gone out, 
clasping the pill in his hand, and the sound of his 
little cough has hardly died away, when a buzzing 
noise sounds nearby, mingled with the cry: 
" Knives to grind. Scissors to grind." This 
grows louder and Tony, alert m an instant, leans 
out the window. A Scissors Grinder appears, a 
lean, bent fellow, doubled over from the weight 
of his machine. His face is cracked and brown, 
with small black eyes; he wears a worn leather 
apron, a gay handkerchief round his throat, and 
a battered cap pulled over his forehead.] 

Scissors Grinder. Knives to grind. Scissors 
to grind. Bring out your knives and scissors ! 
[He stops by the boy a<nd adds enticingly] Make 
'em nice and sharp for you ! [He swings his ma- 
chine to the ground and starts it.] 

Tony [smiling] Good-day to you. What a 
funny wheel, it goes so fast ! I wish I could make 
things all sharp and shiny ! Oh, Mr. Scissors 
Grinder, couldn't you come in and see me? 

Scissors Grinder. Do you think I can waste 
time where there 's nothing for me to do? I must 
be moving on hunting for knives and scissors to 
grind. 

Tony. It must be fine to see so many places ! 
[13] 



THREE PILLS 

Scissors Grinder. It's not so bad jogging 
along out in the country, but — [making a grim- 
ace at the houses across the way] there are too 
many houses here, and the pavements are hot and 
hard — hard on shoe leather too ! [He taps his 
foot sadly. ,] 

Tony. But there 's lots of people here, and 
they 've all got knives and scissors. 

Scissors Grinder. They don't make friends 
of their knives and scissors — just throw 'era 
away when the blades get dull! Well, if you 
have n't anything for me to sharpen, I must find 
someone who has ! 

Tony [quickly'] If you 're so busy grinding, 
could n't you let your Soul come in and play 
with me? 

Scissors Grinder [leaning in and scrutinizing 
him] Why, I 'm nothing but a tramp, without a 
whole shirt to my back, or a piece of silver in 
my pockets! 

Tony. Oh, that does n't matter. 

Scissors Grinder. You 're the strangest fel- 
low I ever met ! [Entering into the game] My 
Soul ! That 's hardly my line of trade, — [ Wink- 
ing good-naturedly] not much call for it, you 
know! 

Tony. Oh, but you 're going to? 

Scissors Grinder [assuming a businesslike 
air] Yes, to be sure. Now who shall I say 
wants it? 

Tony. Tony Sims, if you please. 

Scissors Grinder. Well, Tony Sims, where 
would you like it put, sir? [He reaches his arms 
[14] 



IN A BOTTLE 

in at the window as if they contained something. ] 
A trifle bulky he is, you know! 

Tony. Oh, put him in here, please! 

Scissors Grinder. Perhaps heM best choose 
his own place. [He shakes his head and pretends 
to take the Soul out again.] He 's a strong- 
minded Soul, I warn you, sir, quite unmanage- 
able at times, and who knows that better than I 
do? [He gives Tony a grin and a friendly wink, 
and goes up the street, clanging his bell and call- 
ing] Knives to grind. Scissors to grind. Bring 
out your knives and scissors ! 

[Tony watches the street hopefully, but almost 
before the Scissors Grinder has gone, the door of 
the corner-cupboard, behind Tony, swings open, 
and a man bounds in, whistling. He is tall, nearly 
twice his master's size, neither very young nor 
very old; his face is jolly and brown, with twink- 
ling gray eyes, a merrily puckered mouth and a 
pointed chin. His costume is made out of patches 
of gay-colored cloth, like a jester's; on its long, 
fantastic points hang small silver bells which make 
a tinkling accompaniment to his movements. Upon 
seeing Tony, he makes a low bow with his hand 
to his heart. Tony regards him in wonder.] 

Scissors Grinder's Soul [laughing at Tony's 
expression] Well, my fine gentleman, what 's the 
matter with me? 

Tony [hastily recovering himself] Nothing — 
that is, I mean, I 'd no idea you 'd be like this ! 

Scissors Grinder's Soul. 'T is a bit of a sur- 
prise at first — shock, I might almost say ! Hon- 
estly, though, I 'm not so bad. 
[15] 



THREE PILLS 

Tony. I should say not! 

Scissors Grinder's Soul. Of course, my suit 
is rather striking, but you see there were two 
kinds of material to start with [holding out the 
tails of his jacket, and pointing to the yellow and 
black], some bright and some dark, and so, since 
neither was enough for a whole dress, I put first 
a patch of yellow and then a piece of black. That 
was my idea, and don't you like the effect? [He 
turns about so Tony may see it from every angle.] 

Tony. It 's beautiful, and your bells sound 
the way birds do very early in the morning. 
Where did you get them? 

Scissors Grinder's Soul [perching himself on 
the edge of the table and swinging his legs to and 
fro] Whenever I make somebody laugh I can have 
one. They 're not so easy to get as you 'd think, 
when Souls so seldom have a chance to show them- 
selves. Not that I 've any objection to my mas- 
ter, though once in awhile he does get in my way ! 
On the whole we 're very happy together. 

Tony [studying him] You 're much taller than 
he! 

Scissors Grinder's Soul [laughing] I should 
say I am! [He suddenly adds to his height by 
standing on the table.] I tell him I may be out- 
growing him one of these days ! 

Tony. Your bells shine so! 

Scissors Grinder's Soul [leaping down from 
the table and across the room] That 's because I 
polish them every night with the sunlight I catch 
during the day. 

Tony [in surprise] Sunlight? 

[16] 



IN A BOTTLE 

Scissors Grinder's Soul. Oh, sometimes I 
use bits of star-dust that have strayed down here. 
It 's a little harder to find, but it keeps them 
brighter. 

Tony. I 've often tried to take hold of sun- 
shine, but it was so slippery ! 

Scissors Grinder's Soul. Yes, I know. 

Tony. And I never saw any star-dust at all. 
Where do you find it? 

Scissors Grinder's Soul [confidentially] In 
all sorts of places : on window sills ; behind 
shutters ; in flower pots ; and once, I found some 
in an ash-barrel in the crookedest alley that ever 
you saw! 

Tony. Do you suppose I could ever find any? 

Scissors Grinder's Soul. Perhaps, but you 
have to learn how. 

Tony. How? 

Scissors Grinder's Soul. It 's quite an art. 
You must really always be on the lookout for it, 
but you must n't ever seem to be ! 

Tony. I 'm going to try. [Thoughtfully] Do 
you like being a Scissors Grinder's Soul? 

Scissors Grinder's Soul. I would n't belong 
to anyone else ! We 're such friends. 

Tony [hesitating] But he — he was n't like 
you? 

Scissors Grinder's Soul. Of course, we are 
different, but variety, you know, — spice o' 
life and all that! When he goes out with his 
machine strapped on his back, I run ahead — up 
all the hills — 

[17] 



THREE PILLS 

Tony. What do you do that for? 

Scissors Grinder's Soul [laughing] Why to 
see what 's on the other side, of course ! 

Tony. And then what? 

Scissors Grinder's Soul. Oh, then, I look for 
another hill to climb ! 

Tony. Aren't you ever tired? 

Scissors Grinder's Soul. I should say not ! 
Besides, I have other things to do. Whenever 
I go by an orchard, I must blow on the apples. 
People wonder and wonder what makes them so 
red ! In the farmhouses where there are little boys 
and girls, I take care to give the trees a shake, so 
the children will find plenty on the ground. They 
never guess who makes the apples fall! 

Tony. But I know now! And what does 
your master do? 

Scissors Grinder's Soul. Oh, he laughs at 
the things I tell him. Sometimes I make him 
songs from the things I see, and he hears them 
all the time he 's grinding people's knives and 
scissors. 

Tony. Won't you sing me one? 

Scissors Grinder's Soul. You heard him 
when he passed just now; what was he singing? 

Tony. I didn't hear him sing anything. He" 
just called out [imitating him], " Knives to grind. 
Scissors to grind." Just like that! 

Scissors Grinder's Soul. Oh, you could n't 
tell that inside he was really singing a song — 
my song! I '11 show you what he sang! 

[18] 



IN A BOTTLE 



& 



THE SCISSORS GRINDER'S SONG 

Arranged by Charles Roepper 



» 



g^e 



*— I- 



*□£ 



3~ 



All the flow'rs and all the grass, All the stir of 
All the house-roofs in the town,Flat or point -ed 



9J • -m- * • 






fl: 



^ «J7 



wings that pass, Crisp, green leaves that clap their hands, 
gray or brown, All the watch -ful win-dow eyes 



i 



:^- 



SB 



:£=*: 



-F k P^ ; 



Winds that blow from oth - er lands, Warm, brown 
All the gild - ed spires that rise, Lit - tie 



I 



w^m%^. 



e 



moors and stars that shine, Be - long to me, yes, 
folk who fol - low me . . Mine they are, Will 



rit. 



^mm 



e 



4 



=s=i= 



' -J- «L 

each is mine, On the roads I trav-el O! 

al-ways be On the streets I trav-el O!, 

[19] 



I] 



THREE PILLS 

The Scissors Grinder's Song 

All the flowers and all the grass, 

All the stir of wings that pass, 

Crisp, green leaves that clap their hands, 

Winds that blow from other lands, 

Warm, brown moors and stars that shine, 

Belong to me, yes, each is mine, — 

On the streets I travel-0 ! * 

All the house-roofs in the town 
Flat or pointed, gray or brown, 
All the watchful window-eyes, 
All the gilded spires that rise, 
Little folk who follow me, — 
Mine they are, — Will always be, 
On the streets I travel-O! 

Tony [clapping his hands] Sing me another, 
do! 

Scissors Grinder's Soul [leaning against the 
wall, and pressing his hands to his head] Not — 
just now. 

Tony. What 's the matter? 

Scissors Grinder's Soul [with an effort] 
Nothing much. 

Tony. Have you got a pain? 

Scissors Grinder's Soul. It 's just my head 
— that 's always aching. 

Tony. I 'm so sorry. Why, I did n't think 
Souls ever had headache. 

1 The music for this song is given on page 19. 

[20] 



IN A BOTTLE 

Scissors Grinder's Soul [coming to him apolo- 
getically^ I never did in my younger days, but 
just lately the constant z-z-z of the machine 
grinding the steel blades has, well, got inside my 
head, and I can't get it out. 

Tony. But I thought the best part about 
being a soul was that you did n't have to stay 
with your master all the time ! Anyway you 
don't have to grind things just because he does ! 

Scissors Grinder's Soul. You 're right about 
that, but even souls forget sometimes ! Once I 
let myself listen to nothing but the grinding, and 
then some of that buzzing got into my head, and 
there it stays. Serves me right, I suppose, but 
it is unpleasant. [He rubs his head ruefully. ] 

Tony [leaning forward and holding out the 
bottle] It 's lucky you told me — look here ! 

Scissors Grinder's Soul [taking his head out 
of his hands] What 's that? 

Tony. Just the thing to cure you. See that 
yellow pill; it will take all the ache out of your 
head! 

Scissors Grinder's Soul [springing up] If I 
thought it really would! 

Tony. It will; the doctor said so. [He holds 
it out and the Soul approaches.] 

Scissors Grinder's Soul. But you 've only 
got two! [He draws back.] I say, you 'd better 
keep it ! 

Tony. No, you take it. I guess I don't 
need it so very much. Besides, there 's one left ! 

Scissors Grinder's Soul [taking the pill] I '11 
make you the happiest song anyone ever heard ! 
[21] 



THREE PILLS 

Tony. Oh, Mr. Scissors Grinder's Soul, thank 
you for playing with me. I loved your song, and 
I 'm going to look for star-dust everywhere ! 

Scissors Grinder's Soul [kneeling by Tony 
and takkiig both his hands] Oh, I should be thank- 
ing you, little boy. When my head is clear again, 
I shall make a new song, and my master and I 
will come and sing it to you ! [He shakes his bells 
and runs joyfully out.] 

Tony [calling after him] Good-bye. 

[Tony si/ngs softly to himself, " On the roads I 
travel 0." Soon steps are heard drawing near, 
and a woman*, heavy and poorly dressed, comes by. 
She carries a tall brush and a bucket on her arm. 
Her skin is coarse and yellow, and her features 
thick and blunted. As she shuffles by, Tony hails 
her.] 

Tony. Good-day to you. 

Woman. Good-day to you. 

Tony. Where are you going? 

Woman. To my work. 

Tony. What do you do? 

Woman. Oh, sometimes I scrub people's floors, 
and clean their windows, or wash their clothes. 
[Indicating her brush] I 've got to scrub to-day. 

Tony. That 's pretty hard work on a hot day 
like this ! 

Woman [leaning on the sill] It is, indeed — 
down on my knees slopping soapy water over the 
floors, and then rubbing it off again! But [sigh- 
ing] when you 've done it as many years as I have 
you get used to it ! 

[22] 



IN A BOTTLE 

Tony. I wish you 'd stay here with me instead ! 

Woman. Dear me, boy, do you think I 've got 
time to waste in foolish talk? I 've got my work 
to do, else where 'd I get the money to buy my 
bread and tea? [She moves away.] 

Tony [quickly] You '11 send your Soul anyway, 
won't you? 

Woman [coming back with her hand to her ear] 
What was that you said? I must be losing my 
hearing! 

Tony. Your Soul — 

Woman [incredulously] Wants my Soul, does 
he? 

Tony. If you please. 

Woman [chuckling] Indeed, if that 's all you 
want, you 're welcome to it ! Only don't be for- 
getting to send it back to me ! Good-day to you ! 

[She goes off, the flapping sound of her shoes 
echoing as site passes up the street. Tony looks 
hopefully towards the door, but it does not open. 
Instead, out of the washtub steps a small figure 
dressed in soft and fluttering green. This little 
person dances about on the tips of her toes, her 
green garments catching the light and shimmering. 
She advances towards Tony, who gazes at her 
speechless. She resembles a fairy, perhaps a dis- 
tant relative of the Irish Leprecauns, so small and 
dainty is she, with a green cap on her head like a 
flower turned upside down, and little white hands 
that seem to have a language all their own.] 

Tony [gasping] You — you are n't hers ? 

Woman's Soul [laughing with a sound such as 
you may have heard when you have put your ear 
[23] 



THREE PILLS 

close to harebells] Yes, I am, don't you like me? 
[She makes him a pirouette and curtsy.] 

Tony [recovering himself] Why, why I think 
you 're the most beautiful Soul I 've ever seen ! 

[The Woman's Soul blows him a kiss as she 
takes gay little runs about the room.] 

Tony. No one would ever have thought you 
belonged to her! 

Woman's Soul. That 's the delightful part 
about Souls — people can never tell what we are 
like! 

Tony. I 'm sure she can't dance — her feet 
were so big, and in such queer, napping shoes ! 

Woman's Soul. Of course she can't! She 
has n't got dancing feet ; hers are much too 
clumsy. But she 's got a dancing Soul — that 's 
me — and I 'm far more satisfactory ! When 
she 's down on her knees on those wet floors, or 
scrubbing the dirty clothes [here she illustrates 
the process], she just has to call and I come and 
dance for her! 

Tony. How she must love you! 

Woman's Soul. She says she could n't live 
without me ! I leave her sometimes, though never 
for very long! 

Tony. Where do you go then? 

Woman's Soul. Oh, I go back to visit the 
place where she lived when I first came to be her 
Soul — far away, over the great green hills where 
the pastures go down to the sea. 

Tony. I saw the sea once from a high window. 
Oh, I 'd like to visit that country ! What do you 
do there? 

[24] 



IN A BOTTLE 

Woman's Soul. First, I kiss the tips of all 
the little fir trees, to make them grow, and I find 
the tiny fairy houses she and I built once. Then 
I run and skip in the dew, and I hunt for little 
yellow mushrooms. They are really gold buttons 
if people only knew and would n't swallow them ! 

Tony. I '11 remember not to ! 

Woman's Soul. Sometimes I lie down by little 
slate-gray pools hidden among tall grasses, and 
I push the grass aside, so the sky can reach those 
little pools and make them blue again. [She lies 
down and shows him how she does all this.] 

Tony. Are there any people there? 

Woman's Soul. I was just coming to them. 
There 's a small village higher up above the downs, 
where she used to live. I go there sometimes, and 
then I can tell her what all the people she knew 
are doing: how Phillip's and Kate's rose-bush 
has climbed to their roof; how Dick and Molly 
have a new, blue-eyed baby to sleep in the little 
yellow cradle by the doorway; how Nancy keeps 
on gathering herbs for the sick ones ; and old 
Peter still sits on his bench watching for the her- 
ring to come back to his weirs. [The Woman? s 
Soul turns away, rubbing her eyes as if they hurt 
her.] 

Tony. What 's the matter ? You 're not cry- 
ing, are you? 

Woman's Soul [shaking her head] My eyes 
hurt me ; that 's all. 

Tony. Is it because the day 's so warm, or 
because you 're staying here instead of going to 
her country? 

[25] 



THREE PILLS 

Woman's Soul. No, they 're always aching. 

Tony. But what makes them? 

Woman's Soil [hurriedly, ashamed to confess 
it] Well, you see, once when she was scrubbing 
floors, she asked me to dance for her, but I felt 

lazy and would n't. Then some of the soapsuds 
tlew in my eves, and I can never wash them all 
out ! 

Tout, That 's too bad, I don't like to see 
your eves get all red, and the soap must make 
them smart. 

Woman's Soul [rubbing them] It does! 

Tony [picking up the bottle and eying the re- 
maining pill doubtfully] Maybe the pain '11 go 
away. 

Woman's Soul. Oh, you don't know those 
soapsuds — they 're in to stay ! 

Tony. \^o they hurt a whole lot? 

The Woman's Soul nods and Tony ghes a last 
look at the pill. 

Tony [slozcly] I 've got a pill that would take 
the pain right out. 

Woman's Soul [risinq quickly] Do you mean 
that? 

Tony [holding it out] My mother brought it 
to me — here it is. [With an effort] You — you 
can have it. 

Woman's Soul [bending over him, and seeing 
the empty bottle] But you have n't any more — 
I could n't take your last ! 

Tony [thrusting it in her hand] Xo, you take 
it. Perhaps I *11 get another! 

Woman's Soil [kissincj him] I '11 never forget 
[ 26 ] 



IN A BOTTLE 

what you have done, and the next time I go to 
the country over the hills, I shall bring you back 
a whole bunch of harebells full of dew! 

[She disappears into the tub. Tony looks ap- 
prehensively at the empty bottle. Soon his mother 
goes by, unlocks the door and comes in. She goes 
to Tony, feeling of his head and hands.] 

Widow Sims. Did you go to sleep the time I 
was gone? 

Tony [chuckling at the remembrance] I should 
say not ! I had such a lot to do. 

Widow Sims [taking off her bonnet] Why 
whatever do you mean, Tony? 

Tony. All the ones who came in to play with 
me. 

Widow Sims. Came right in, did they, when 
I locked the door myself? 'T was only dreams 
came in to you ! 

Tony [firmly, pointing to the chair and table] 
They sat right there. 

Widow Sims [shaking her head] Then it 's high 
time you took the first pill. [She goes to the" 
shelf, and gives a start at not finding it. Then 
she searches more thoroughly.] I 'd have sworn 
I put it here with my own hands. Tony, you 've 
not seen the bottle the Doctor gave me? 

Tony [guiltily] Here it is, mother. 

Widow Sims [stands back mystified, looking 
from Tony to the' shelf in bewilderment] He 
could n't have reached it, not even on a chair, 
he 's that weak. Queer what tricks things '11 play 
on a body! [Going to Tony] Come, dear, give 
it to me." [She takes up the bottle, stares at it, 
[27] 



THREE PILLS 

giving it a shake to be sure it is really empty. ] 
The j 're gone — [Crying out] Tony, Tony, 
what have you done with them? 

Tony [nervously'] I — I — 

Widow Sims. You never were one to meddle 
or play tricks — have you hid them or swal- 
lowed — 

Tony [simply] I gave them away to three 
friends of mine. 

[The Widow looks at him for a moment, speech- 
less, then she sits down heavily on a chair, cover- 
ing her face with her apron.] 

Widow Sims [weeping] Tony, Tony, what is it 
you 're saying? 

Tony. I 'm sorry, but they did need them. 

Widow Sims. What have you done? They 
would 'a cured you of the fever. It '11 be burning 
you all up now, and where '11 I ever get another 
two pounds to buy you more? Oh, what shall I 
do? What shall I do? [She begins to sob 
despairingly.] 

Tony. I don't mind, mother, and you should 
have seen how grateful they were ! 

Widow Sims. There he goes again; oh, deary 
me, what 's to become of him now? [Tony looks 
distressed, then his face brightens as he hears in 
the distance the Scissors Grinder's cry. It is 
more a happy chant than before and swells to a 
kind of paian of happiness.] 

Scissors Grinder. Knives to grind. Scissors 
to grind. 

Tony [leaning out to listen] Do you hear that, 
mother? [She pays no heed.] 
[28] 



IN A BOTTLE 

Scissors Grinder [nearer] Knives to grind. 
Scissors to grind. 

Tony. Listen, he 's singing his thanks for the 
pill! 

Scissors Grinder [still nearer] Knives to 
grind. Scissors to grind. 

Tony [delightedly] I knew it would cure his 
headache ! 

Scissors Grinder [still nearer and triumphant] 
Bring out your knives and scissors ! 

Tony. Oh, mother, is n't it a fine song? 

Widow Sims [wringing her hands] Whatever 
do you mean, Tony? I can't hear a thing but 
that old Scissor Grinder's ugly noise ! [Scissors 
Grinder's voice, more distantly] Knives to grind. 
Scissors to grind. 

Tony. But you 're not listening. He said 
he 'd make me the happiest song he could, but I 
never thought he 'd be well so soon ! 

Scissors Grinder. Knives to grind. Scissors 
to grind. Bring out your knives and scissors ! 

[Tony listens till the cry dies away. Widow 
Sims rises, and goes to Tony, taking his face be- 
tween her hands. Then she moves to the table, 
sobbing, and tries to go on with her work. Tony 
watches her. Suddenly the Scrub Woman appears 
at the window, a bunch of flowers in her hands. 
These she thrusts in front of Tony.] 

Tony. Oh, I know where they came from ! 
They grew in your country over the hills in the 
pastures by the sea! 

Woman. What a queer boy ! How did you 
guess ? 

[29] 



THREE PILLS 

Tony. Did you think I 'd forget so soon? 

Woman [to the Widow Sims] My sister sent 
them to me from my old home. I 've brought some 
for your little boy. 

Tony. Here is a harebell. I knew she 'd bring 
me one! 

Widow Sims. You're very kind to him. Thank 
her for them, Tony. 

Widow Sims [to the Woman] Talks like that 
all day, he does. 

Tony. And there is, there is, a drop of dew 
on it! 

Woman. Well, now but suppose that was just 
a drop from my soapsuds? 

Tony. Oh, I know better than that ! She said 
it would be full of dew ! 

Widow Sims. Just listen to him, will you? 

Tony. I 'm glad the pill took the pain out of 
her eyes. Now she can go back to your country, 
and dance for you all the time, and her eyes won't 
ever smart any more ! 

Woman [turning to go] Well, I hope you'll 
be feeling better in the morning. [To the Widozv] 
Queer how the fever makes them act. [She goes 
up the street.] 

Tony [fondling the harebell] See, mother, it 
can dance just the way her Soul did! [At this 
the Widow sobs afresh, burying her face in her 
apron. Just as her wailing grows loud, the noise 
of a cane tap-tapping sounds on the pavement, 
and the Gentleman in the blue coat and high hat 
comes by.] 

[30] 



IN A BOTTLE 

Tony [calling to him] I hope he 's grown very 
tall by now. 

Gentleman [starting and coming to the win- 
dow] God bless my soul ! 

Tony. You will play with him sometimes, and 
not count your money all the time? [At this the 
Widow cries more loudly.] 

Gentleman [thumping his cane] What 's all 
this noise ? I never heard such a racket ! 

Widow Sims. They 're lost, lo-st — 

Gentleman. What 's lost? Speak up, woman. 

Widow Sims. Some pills, sir. 

Tony. They 're not lost. I gave them away. 
Your Soul took one himself, don't you remember? 

Gentleman [to the Widow] Don't blubber so! 
Is that boy crazy? 

Widow Sims. No, sir, it 's the fever makes 
him talk so. [Beginning to sob againJ] The pills 
would 'a cured him ; now he '11 die of the fever. 
Oh, what shall I do-o — 

* Gentleman. Rubbish! [Thumping his cane 
and addressing the Widow] Go to the Doctor's 
for more of those confounded pills. And — 
STOP THAT NOISE! 

Widow Sims. I 've got no more money. 

Gentleman. You 're a lazy, good-for-noth- 
ing, thriftless — 

Widow Sims. Oh, no, sir, I work hard all day, 
but I 'm a poor widow. [The Gentleman turns 
on his heel, tries to go away, and then wheels about. 
Fumbling in his pocket, he awkwardly draws out 
some money which he lays on the window-sill. ,] 

Gentleman. There, take that — and for 
[31] 



THREE PILLS 

Heaven's sake — STOP THAT RACKET! [He 

stumps off, muttering. The Widow hurries to the 
window and leans out, calling after him.'] 

Widow. Oh, thank you, sir! God bless you, 
sir! [Dropping on her knees by Tony] Tony, 
Tony, now I can buy you three more pills ! 

Tony [smiling to himself] His Soul must have 
grown very big! 

CURTAIN 



[32 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

AN INDECOROUS EPILOGUE 

BY 

HUBERT OSBORNE • 



'The evil that men do lives after them; 
The good is oft interred with their bones ' 
Julius Caesar, iii. 2. 



CHARACTERS 

Dr. John Hall . . Son-in-law to Wm. Shakespeare 
The Rev. John Ward . . Vicar of Trinity Church 

Jenkyns. A schoolmaster 

Anne Hathaway 

Mistress Susanna Hall 1 Daughters to 

Mistress Judith Quiney } William Shakespeare 

Mistress Whateley 

The Nurse 



First produced by The 47 Workshop, November 16 and 17, 
1917. 

Copyright, 1917, by Hubert Osborne. 

Permission for amateur or professional performances of any 
kind must first be obtained from The 47 Workshop or The Theatre 
Workshop, Knickerbocker Theatre Building, New York City. 






"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

Place: "New Place" Stratford-on-Avon. 
Time: April 23, 1616. 

Scene: A liv'mg room. The malls are of oak 
beams with plaster between; the ceiling is beamed. 

At one side of the room is a fireplace. Be- 
yond this is a door leading to the hall, into which 
opens the front door of the house. At the back of 
the room is a large door opening into an inner 
room; opposite the fireplace is a door leading to 
other parts of the house; above this is a large 
leaded window. 

Near the fireplace is an oaken chest; at the 
back of the room is a cupboard; in front of the 
window are a writing desk and chair. Near the 
center of the room are a table and three chairs. 

On the table are three pewter mugs, pewter 
dishes, and an oaken flagon; on the desk are a 
trinket box, an ink pot m which stands a crimson 
quill pen, and a book. There are curtains at the 
window. 

There is an air of neatness about the room which 
suggests that the owner might have recently put 
it in order before going on a journey. 

When the curtain rises the dimly lighted stage 
is empty. A fire burns in the fireplace; a ray of 
sunlight steals through the drawn curtains and 
falls across the floor. 

[35] 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

In the distance a clock chimes the hour, then 
strikes seven. 

The Nurse enters from the hall carrying some 
branches of apple blossoms in her arms. She is a 
large, motherly person of at least seventy. She 
goes to the door at the back of the room and 
opens it. 

In the inner room is seen a bed on which lies the 
body of a man; two lighted candles stand at the 
foot of the bed. 

The Nurse lays the apple blossoms on the bed, 
looks about the room, and moves the candles a little 
nearer the bed. 

Jenkyns, the local schoolmaster, enters from 
the hall. He is a man of seventy. 

Jenkyns [in a hushed tone] Nurse! 

Nurse [coming from the inner room] Aye, 
Master Jenkyns. 

Jenkyns. Has anyone been here since I left? 

Nurse. No. 

Jenkyns. His daughters should have come by 
now. 

Nurse. Aye, they 've had time. 

Jenkyns [pointing to the inner room] Have 
you done all in there? 

Nurse. Aye. 

Jenkyns [going to the door and looking in at 
the dead man] You 've laid him out in his taffeta 
doublet ! 

Nurse. Aye, Master Shakespeare was fond o' 
it — a' always wore it o' j ourneys. [She closes 
the door to the inner room.] 
[36] 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

Jenkyns. He told me it was made in London 
town. 

Nurse. Aye, just afore a' came back to live 
in Stratford. 

Jenkyns. It must have cost a lot of money. 

Nurse. A' was never thrifty o' his gold. 

Jenkyns. He was open-handed even as a lad. 

Nurse. That a' was. [She takes up the dishes 
from the table, leaving the mugs and flagon.] I 'd 
best set about tidying the house. [She points to 
the inner room] I 've been busy in there since a' 
passed away. 

Jenkyns. I '11 wait the others here. [He sits 
at the table.] Exit Nurse. 

[Mistress Judith Quiney enters from the hall. 
She is a kindly looking woman of thirty-two.] 

Jenkyns [rising] Judith! 

Judith. You were here — at the end? 

Jenkyns. Yes. Your father asked for you 
just before he breathed his last." 

Judith. I would I had been here, but Dr. 
Hall did not think the end so near and would not 
have Susanna and myself risk the night air to 
come. 

Jenkyns. Yes. 'T was sudden. 

The Nurse reenters 

Nurse [seeing Judith] Mistress Quiney ! 

Judith. Nurse ! [She takes off her hat and 
cloak.] 

Nurse. Give 'em to me. I '11 put 'em by. 
[She takes the hat and cloak from Judith.] 
[37] 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

Judith. Thanks. Exit Nurse. 

Jenkyns. Is your sister coming? 

Judith. She started out with me, but stopped 
to leave Betty with her Aunt. 'T would not be 
well for the child to be here at such a time. 

Jenkyns. No. 'T is no place for children 
with the dead. 

Judith. She '11 miss the stories father used to 
tell her. 

Jenkyns. He thought of. such odd tales. 

Judith. She seemed to understand. 

[Mistress Susanna Hall enters from the hall. 
She is a large, handsome woman of thirty-five — 
a dominating personality.] 

Susanna. Master Jenkyns ! 

Jenkyns. Susanna ! 

Judith. Sister! 

Susanna. Judith! [Turning to Jenkyns, her 
manner patronizing] The Doctor tells me you 
have been most kind in this sad hour. 

Jenkyns. I did what I could for Willie. 

Susanna. Father always relied on you so. 
[To Judith] John has gone to the Vicar's. He 
will be here as soon as he has seen him. 

The Nurse reenters. 

Nurse. Mistress Hall! 

Susanna. Nurse ! 

Nurse [pointimg to the inner room] A' lies in 
there. 

Jenkyns [to' Susanna and Judith] Come! [He 
goes to the door to the inner room and opens it.] 
[38] 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

Judith [going to the door] Poor father! 

Jenkyns. Look! So peaceful. 

Judith. As if a smile were playing on his lips. 

Susanna [in the door, disapprovingly'] Yes. 
He never treated life with fitting dignity, and 
meets death with a smile ! [Judith kneels by her 
father's bed.] 

Nurse. A' made a noble end for a' that. 

Susanna [frowning] Those gay clothes are 
hardly fitting for a shroud! 

Nurse. I think a' wished 'em; a' left 'em out 
as if to be at hand. 

Susanna. Very like! He gained strange no- 
tions from those player bands. [Taking off her 
hat and cloak] Here, Nurse, put these by. 

Nurse [taking Susanna's things] Aye, Mistress 
Hall. 

Susanna [seeing the mugs and flagon on the 
table] Nurse! What are these? 

Nurse [evasively] Nothing. They 're from 
last night. 

Susanna [suspiciously] Were there strangers 
here ? 

Nurse. Aye. But they were fine gentlemen, 
with well-turned legs and — 

Judith comes from the inner room, closing the 
door after her. 

Susanna [interrupting the Nurse] Friends of 
father's ? 

Nurse. So I think. They came afore supper 
and stayed far into the night. Lord, how your 
[39] 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

father talked ! 'T was wonderful ; I could n't un- 
derstand a word a' said. Exit Nurse. 

Susanna [to Jenkyns] Knew you aught of this ? 

Jenkyns. I heard they left their horses at the 
Inn; and from their talk they were from London 
town. One was called Jonson and the other Dray- 
ton, if I remember right. 

Susanna [righteously indignant] Players! 

Judith. Poor father! 

Susanna. He 'd promised to forswear their 
company ! 

Judith. He tried, but still he could n't put 
them from his mind. 

The Nurse reenters, 

Susanna. He was so weak. 

Jenkyns. Nay, only thoughtless. He was the 
same when a boy, but he meant well at heart. 

Nurse. Aye, that a' did ; a' was a forward lad 
i' spite o' some 'at said a' was not over bright; a' 
was different, 'at was all, and some'at sickly. 

Jenkyns. Yes, when first he came to me to 
school I had great hopes for him, but soon he got 
strange notions in his head that kept him from 
getting on. 

Nurse [picking up the mugs and flagon] A' 
never slept well o' nights. 

Susanna [looking at the mugs] Did father 
overdrink last night? 

Nurse. Nay, that a' did not — not enough to 
quench the thirst of a flea burning in hell. 

Judith. He bad been most temperate of late, 
[40] 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

Jenkyns. 'T was not sack that brought his 
fever on. 

Nurse. 'T was his scribblings — that was the 
trouble. He 's always been the same — when the 
parchment and ink pot came out, then mischief 
was afoot; a'd sit all night, his eyes shining like 
stars, as if he looked into another world and saw 
strange sights. 

Susanna [scathingly'] Writing again! 

Judith. He told me he had started a new play. 

Jenkyns. He hoped it would bring honor to 
his name. 

Nurse. Aye; scratch, scratch, scratch [she 
rubs the mugs together with a sly look], until a'd 
worked a'self into a burning fever. I knew how 
it would some day end. Exit Nurse. 

Jenkyns. Is there aught else I can do? 

Susanna. Thanks, but the Doctor will be here 
soon. 

Jenkyns. I go to meet a boyhood friend of 
your father's who would look upon his face again. 
They had not met in years. You 'd not mind if 
we came here anon ? We '11 make no trouble. 

Susanna [fatuously] In this sad hour? 

Judith [stopping Susanna'] A friend of 
father's, Susanna. [To Jenkyns] And welcome. 

Jenkyns. Thank you, Judith. I '11 be back. 
He goes out into the hall. 

Susanna [looking about the room] 'T is very 
orderly in here for him ! 

Judith [looking in the cupboard] Look, every- 
thing put to rights ! 

Susanna. So it is. 

[41] 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

Judith [going to the desk'] I think he must 
have felt the end was near. [Taking up the 
trinket box] His trinket box. [Opening it] A 
lock of jet black hair. 

[She takes the lock of hair from the box and 
shows it to Susanna.] 

Susanna [bitterly] A remembrance of one of 
his many loves ! [She looks in the trinket box and 
take's out a letter.] Judith, a letter with the royal 
arms! [Opening it] From the King! 

Judith. The King! How came father by it? 

Susanna [in a matter-of-fact tone] He must 
have found it somewhere in London. [Opening 
the desk] His will should be in here. 

Judith. Had he changed it and made mention 
of mother? 

Susanna. Yes, a week ago. 

Judith. Then she '11 not feel so bitter. 

Susanna [taking a manuscript from the desk] 
Here 's parchments ! 

Judith. What do they say? 

Susanna [looking over the manuscript] There 
is much written here ; but 't is of no consequence 
— only another play ! 'T is not finished yet. 
Here on the last page is writ [reads] : " Does no 
one understand? Here at the journey's end I find 
the recompense is — just the quest." [Putting 
the manuscript back in the desk] There is no 
sense to that. At the journey's end the quest 
must needs be o'er ! 

Judith. Perhaps he meant his life had been 
in vain; he had been sad of late. 
[42] 



'THE GOOD MEN DO" 

Susanna. Nay, 't is but the vagaries of a fail- 
ing mind. 

Judith. But yet — I seem to see. 

Susanna [taking another parchment from the 
desk] Here is the will. 

Judith. Aught else? 

Susanna. No. [She puts the will back in the 
desk.] The desk has been lately put to rights. 
[Thinking] The players here — his best suit put 
out as if to wear — the cupboard put in order — 
a new play begun — ! [Realizing what had been in 
Shakespeare's mind] Judith, father was planning 
to return to London and the theater ! 

Judith. Yes, so it would seem. 

Susanna. After all we 'd done to make him 
happy here! [Bitterly] Had he not besmirched 
our name enough already without returning to 
that sinful life! [With determination] Well, 't is 
o'er; the future rests with us. 

Judith. Perhaps 't is best the end came when 
it did. 

Susanna. Yes, God was kind — to him — 
and us ! 

[Anne Hathaway enters from the hall. She is 
a woman of sixty.] 

Anne. Daughters ! 

Susanna [surprised at seeing her] Mother ! 

Anne. Aye, Sue ; draw me a chair by the fire. 
'T was a long walk from my cottage and I am 
cold and tired. 

Susanna [taking a chair from the table and 
placing it before the fire] Come, rest a while. 
[43] 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

Anne [sitting] That 's the good child. [To 
Judith] Well, girl, have you naught to say to 
your mother? 

Judith. You — here! 

Anne. And why not ? 

Judith. But — father — 

Anne. Aye, " father." You always favored 
him and took his part against me ! 

Judith. Dear mother ! 

Anne. Nay, Judy, 't will do no good to speak. 
I know how quick you were to leave me and go to 
your father when he came back here to live in 
Stratford. 

Judith. But he was all alone. 

Anne. 'T was well you married and got rid of 
his bad counselings or you 'd have got like him ! 

Judith. Mother, he did not hate you. 

Anne. Ah, do not talk to me. I know the 
man he was ! 

The Nurse reenters. 

Nurse [seeing Anne, surprised] Mistress Hath- 
away ! 

Anne. " Hathaway " — nay, Mistress Shake- 
speare ! He may have denied me his name as 
his wife, but he can't stop me enjoying my rights 
as his widow. 

Judith. Mother, please ! 

Anne. Nurse, prepare the best room for me ! 
[The Nurse looks questioningly at Judith.] 

Anne. Well? What are you looking at? This 
is my husband's house, and I am mistress here ! 

Nurse. Aye, so I see! Exit Nurse. 

[ 44 ] 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

Judith. Mother, he lies in there. [She points 
to the inner room.] Will you not look at him? 

Anne. Look on his face? Nay, that I '11 not. 
I would I never had ! 'T was a sad day for me 
when Funk Sandells and John Richardson at my 
father's wish forced him to marry me. [ With an 
evident relish of combat] If he 'd had a drop of 
blood in his liver, he 'd have broke their heads 
for their pains ! 

Judith. Mother. 

Anne [garrulously] But they meant well; they 
thought it for my good. Aye, and they had to 
put themselves under surety for forty pounds to 
the Bishop should it later be found that he had 
meddled with another lass. [Amused] Forty 
pounds for him; he was not worth the half! 
[Spitefully] 'T was Mistress Whateley's doings. 
She claimed they were betrothed. [Humorously^ 
Would she had got him. I could not wish her 
worse ! 

Judith. Mother, do not forget; he was our 
father. 

Anne. Yes, so was he when he kept the house 
awake nights with his scribblings ; so was he when 
he wrote foul verses to hang on the gates of honest 
gentry and disgraced our name ; so was he when 
he ran away to London and left you without a 
thought ! Did your father think of you when you 
were starving and I had to borrow forty shil- 
lings of my father's shepherd to buy you food ! 
[Proudly] Aye, and I brought him a dower of 
six pounds, thirteen shillings and four pence ! 
Don't talk to me of your father, girl ! 
. [ 45 ] 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

The Nurse reenters. 

Anne. Well, is my room prepared? 

Nurse. Aye, 't is ready. 

Anne. I '11 have a look at it. [Rises.] And, 
Nurse, I 'd have some food. I 'm almost famished 
from my walk. 

Nurse. I '11 get you some'at. Exit Nurse. 

Anne. Come, Sue, show me the way. 

Susanna. Yes, mother. 

Exeunt Anne and Susanna. 

[Judith stands looking into the fire.] 

Jenkyns reenters from the hall, with Mistress 
Whateley, a woman of fifty, small and frail, her 
face still retaining much of its youthful beauty; 
she is a " Viola " grown old. 

Jenkyns. Come, we are alone. He lies in 
there. 

Judith [hearing Jenkyns' voice] Master Jen- 
kyns ! 

Jenkyns. Yes, Judith ! 

Judith. You 've brought my father's friend? 

Jenkyns [turns to go, motioning Mistress 
Whateley to follow him] We '11 come back later. 

Judith. You may see him now. [Turning and 
seeing Mistress Whateley] Mistress Whateley ! 

Mistress Whateley. You know. 

Judith. Yes. 

Mistress Whateley. Do not make me go 
until I see him once again. 

Judith. But, mother ! 

Mistress Whateley. She can't deny me that. 

r 46 1 . 



'THE GOOD MEN DO" 

I have not seen him since — since we walked in 
Arden Wood. 'T was spring ; the May in bloom 
as it is now; the moon was stealing through the 
evening mists ; a nightingale was singing in the 
copse ; and then they came — and took him from 
me. 

Judith. The night he wed my mother. 

Mistress Whateley. I did not mean to bring 
that to your mind. 

Judith. 'T is not a pleasant story. 

Mistress Whateley [coming to Judith'] Let 
me look at you. You favor him. You have your 
father's eyes. I 've heard you loved him dearly. 
So did I. The love we both bear him should be 
a bond between us. Can't we be friends? 

Judith. I think we are. 

Mistress Whateley. Judith. [She takes 
Judith's hands in hers.] Then I may see him? 

Judith. Master Jenkyns will take you. 

Jenkyns. Come. [He leads Mistress Whate- 
ley to the inner room. Judith follows them and 
stands in the doorway. The chimes strike the 
quarter hour. Anne is heard approaching. Ju- 
dith closes the door to the inner room.] 

Anne and Susanna reenter. 

Anne. Where is the Nurse? Would she let 
me starve? 

Judith. She '11' be here presently. 

Anne. Presently, huh! This house is badly 
run. When I take hold there '11 be some change, 
you '11 see ! 

Judith. Do you like your room? 
[47] 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

Anne. 'T will do, though somewhat dark. 
The mulberry tree by the window keeps out the 
sun. I '11 have it cut away. 

Susanna. We '11 talk about that later, mother, 
dear. 

Anne [defiantly] That we shall ! [Garrulously] 
The stairs are dusty ; the hallway 's not in good 
repair. I 'm disappointed in the place. 'T is not 
so grand in spite of all Will's airs ! I'd as leave 
have my cottage. 

Susanna. I 'm sure you would, mother. 
You 've lived there so long you 'd not be happy 
long away. 

Anne [suspiciously'] Ah, think you so, Sue? 

Susanna. 'T will make a pleasant change for 
you to come here and visit for the day. 

Anne. Visit, say you? 

Susanna. You must come often. The Doc- 
tor 's always glad to have you with us. 

Anne [her anger rising] That 's kind of him! 

Susanna. And Betty loves to have you. 

Anne. Yes ? 

Susanna. This is a fitting house for one of 
John's position, and well located. 

Anne [shreitishly] So, Sue, you have your 
mind upon the place! 

Susanna. You 'd not be happy here ; 't would 
make you think of him ! 

Anne [sneeringly] You 're growing very 
thoughtful of my happiness. [With determina- 
tio.i] But here I am, and here I stay ! 

Susanna. Now, mother ! 

Anne. I see you have your plans all made ! 
[48] 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

Susanna [seeing that tact will be of no avail] 
Father wished me to live here ! 

Anne [angrily] Girl, I '11 have you know this 
is my house ! 

Susanna [showing some of her mother's 
shrewishness] Think you so? 

Anne. 'T is mine by my dower rights ! 

Susanna. No, mother, it is not ! 

Anne. And why, I 'd like to know? 

Susanna [deliberately] Because it's mine! 

Anne [jumping up] You lie, you fro'ard 
wench ; you lie ! 

Susanna [with aggravating composure'] Mother, 
be calm ; these scenes are out of place ! 

Anne. " Be calm ! " " Be calm ! " while I am 
robbed by my own flesh and blood — by one I 'd 
scrimped and starved to feed ! " Be calm," say 
you ! Ah ! there 's your father speaking in you 
now! [With cunning] How came you by the 
house? Aye, tell me that? 

Susanna. Father left it to me by his will. 

Anne [flaring up] I '11 not believe it without 
proof! [Self -pityingly] But what could I expect? 
He 's always been the same. When he bought his 
house in Blackfriars, he barred my dower in the 
bill of purchase, and now he 'd take the roof from 
o'er my head ! 

Susanna. You have your cottage. 

Anne. A plague upon my cottage! Get I 

naught of his? What of New Place here; his land 

hard by, a hundred and seven acres if there 's a 

foot; his house in Henley Street; his interest in 

[49] 



'THE GOOD MEN DO" 

the tithes; his property in London? Get I none 
of these? 

Judith [trying to pacify her] Father changed 
his will a week ago and made mention of you in it. 

Anne [hopefully'] Now, did he that? At last 
he had some shame! What did he leave me? 

Susanna. He did not tell me. 

Anne. Well, where 's the will? [Greedily] I 'd 
see what I do get ! 

Judith [getting the will from the desk] I '11 
fetch it, mother. 

Anne. Quick, girl, quick! 

Judith. Here it is. 

Anne [petulantly] You know I cannot read. 

Susanna. Give it to me. [She takes the will 
from Judith.] 

Anne. Tell me what it says. 

Susanna. Let me see. 

Anne. Yes. 

Susanna. Here 's } T our name. 

Anne. Go on ! Go on ! 

Susanna [reads] " I give to my wife — " 

Anne. Why do you pause? Is it something 
you want for }^ourself ? 

Susanna [reads] " I give to my wife my second 
best bed, with the furniture." 

Anne. You read not true. 

Susanna. 'T is written here. 

Anne. Let me see. 

Susanna. Look — here. [She points out the 
line.] Written in between the lines. 

Anne [in a towering rage] His second best bed ! 
I '11 not believe it. Would that I could read ! 
[50] 



'THE GOOD MEN DO" 

'T is some jest you play; — but, yet, 't is like his 
tricks. Oh, woe is me. I am a jilted wife — the 
scorn of womankind ! I warrant it was a bed he 
never slept in ! And were he still alive he 'd never 
sleep again in peace. I 'd see to that. Not shall 
he rest in peace within the grave ! My curse shall 
rest upon him ! I '11 recall his past and make his 
name again a by-word here in Stratford! 

Mistress Whateley and Jenkyns come from the 
inner room on hearing Anne's angry voice. 

Anne. The lying knave ; the tavern lout ; a 
poacher, banished hence ; a player ; a rogue ; a 
vagabond ! 

Mistress Whateley. Anne, stop ! 

Susanna. Mistress Whateley ! 

Anne [turning on her] You ! — Get you gone ! 
Get you gone, I say ! 

Mistress Whateley. Not yet. [There is 
something in her simple dignity that quiets Anne.] 
Anne, I said naught to you when you took him 
from me. For thirty-five years I 've held my 
peace, but now I do not go until I 've had my 
say! 

Anne. You think to shame me — to turn my 
daughters' love to hate? Well, we'll see. I can 
give as good as you. 

Mistress Whateley. I know your waspish 
tongue of old. 'T will do no good to use it now. 

Anne [changing her tack] You come to taunt 
me when my heart is broke. Oh, what I 've had 
to suffer through that man — his lack of kindli- 
ness, his lawless ways. 

[51] 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

Mistress Whateley. Had you not meddled 
in his life his story would be different. 

Anne. Meddled! I? [Relishing the thought 
of her past conquest s.~\ 'T was he that did the 
meddling. With honied words made me forget my 
maiden modesty ; and when he 'd wrought the 
wrong, 't was right that he should save me from 
disgrace. 

Mistress Whateley. Made you, Anne ! Do 
not lie unto yourself. Made you ! He a lad of 
seventeen and you a grown woman ! 

Anne [flaring up] A grown woman ! She 
taunts me with my age ! 

Mistress Whateley. You tricked him into 
marrying you, knowing that he did not love you. 
You made no home for him that loved the little 
niceties of life, but made him live in squalor. You 
drove him from you by your nagging tongue to 
taverns and low company. Your jealous tantrums 
made banishment a happy liberty ! 

Anne. I did not drive him hence. He always 
wished for London and its easy, sinful ways, the 
lazy lout ! 

Mistress Whateley. Easy ! There alone, 
without friends, without money, he could not 
choose his work but needs must take what first 
should come to hand. If that was the theater I 
cannot hold him wrong. It was the only means 
he had to live. You were his wife. You could 
have helped him much. Your love should have 
been the inspiration of his life and spurred him 
on to honorable fame. Instead, you drove him to 
his worst and wrecked the promise of his youth. 
[52] 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

What he was you made him. What sins are his, 
they are upon your head. [Her strength is spent.] 
Master Jenkyns, take me home. [She takes Jen- 
kyns' arm weakly.] 

Exeunt Mistress Whateley and Jenkyns. 

Anne [turning on Susanna and Judith in her 
rage] Nice daughters, you, to leave me to her 
wrath. I who never did a person harm ! And this 
is my reward. [She starts to cry.] 

Judith. Nay, mother, do not fret. 

Anne. And if I do, who cares ! 

The Nurse reenters 

Nurse. The Doctor 's coming up the path. 

Susanna [quite composed] Thank you, Nurse, 
we '11 wait him here. 

Nurse. Aye. Exit Nurse. 

Judith. John 's coming, mother ; dry your 
eyes. 

Anne. I have good cause to weep — a widow 
— left alone ! 

Susanna [sharply] Come, try to make some 
show of dignity ! 

Dr. Hall enters, a thickset, smug, solid, middle- 
class Englishman of about forty. 

Dr. Hade [importantly] I come from the Vicar. 

Judith. Would he listen? 

Susanna [fatuously] John's position, as lead- 
ing physician of Stratford, would have much 
weight, I 'm sure. 

Dr. Hale [smugly] I think it did, my dear. 
[53] 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

[To the others] The Vicar was most kind and will 
help us in every way he can to quiet talk of 
the circumstances of your father's marriage, his 
banishment from here, and his life in London. As 
tithe owner he is privileged to be buried within 
the church; to this the Vicar will make no objec- 
tion. And his advice is to destroy all evidence 
of your father's connection with the theater. 

Susanna. That is wisely said. 

Dr. Hall. Then let us now begin. Have you 
been through his effects? 

Susanna. He had put everything to rights. 

Dr. Hall. That is well ; 't will save much 
trouble. 

Susanna. His will and an unfinished play is 
all we found. 

Dr. Hall. He, too, must have wished the past 
forgot. 

Anne. And so he might. 

Dr. Hall. Let me have the will. 

Anne. Yes, look at it and see the shame he 's 
put upon me! 

Judith [getting the mill and the play from the 
desk] Here it is, and the unfinished play. 

Dr. Hall [taking the will] I '11 keep the will. 
Put the play by. [Judith lays the play on the 
table.] The Vicar will be here presently to read 
a prayer. 

Anne. And why should he do that? 

Dr. Hall. As Master Shakespeare did not re- 
ceive the last rites of the Church, I thought it 
would look well and cause favorable report. 

Anne. Favorable report of him, and what of 
[54] 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

me? Aye, tell me that? Shall I be painted as 
a shrewish wife while him you hold up as a model 
man — a true, kind, loving and long-suffering hus- 
band ! Is that your plan? Well, that you'll not. 
I '11 tell his wilfulness unto the world and let them 
know the kind of man he was ! 

Judith {trying to quiet her] Mother. 

Anne. You heard me, girl. 

Dr. Hall. You were his wife. What differ- 
ences you had you should have hid within the 
family walls and shown an outward sign of amity 
and love, not aired your grievance to a tattling 
world and lain your children open to much shame. 

Anne. What shame there was, is his. You all 
know that. 

Susanna. Our family scandal is an old wives' 
tale retold by gossips round the winter fire. 

Anne [proudly] Aye, that it is. 

Dr. Hall [frowning on Anne] With him it shall 
be buried. Mark you that ! 

Anne [whimpering'] Blame me ; blame me ! 
There 's none to take my part ! 

Susanna. Mother ! Peace, I pray ! 

Dr. Hall [turns away, and going to fireplace, 
notices the chest] What's in the chest? 

Judith. I do not know. 

Susanna. We did not look. 

Dr. Hall. 'T were well we do so now. [Opens 
the chest.] There 's much within. [He takes out 
the costume Shakespeare wore as " Adam " in " As 
You Like It."] 

Judith. A shepherd's smock. 

Anne. Fine clothes for London, huh ! 
[55] 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

Dr. Hall [taking out the costume worn as the 
" Ghost " in " Hamlet "] Here 's more. 

Judith [lifting it up] 'T is strange — covered 
with gauze! What should he use that for? 

Dr. Hall. I 've heard he played a ghost in 
one of his plays. [He takes a woman's dress from 
the chest. ] 

Susanna. A woman's dress ! 

Anne. Aye, one of some trollop that he dallied 
with ! And yet you 'd make me hold my peace ! 

Dr. Hall. There are no woman players. 

Anne. He 'd go afield to find a dame ! 

Judith. We had best put them back. 

Anne. You cannot leave those sinful things 
about the house. 

Judith. I 'd like to keep them ; they were 
father's. 

Dr. Hall. They were a part of his shameful 
life. We had best burn them. 

Susanna. Yes. But put the dress by. It 
would make over well for Betty. Burn the rest. 

Judith. What else is there? 

Dr. Hall [going back to the chest] Look, 
parchments ! [He takes out a bundle of parch- 
ments and throws them on the floor. The others 
gather around as Dr. Hall takes manuscript after 
manuscript from the chest and tosses them on the 
floor.] 

Susanna [looking at one of the manuscripts] 
Why, it 's a play ! [Looking at another] And so 
is this. [Looking at several] They must be 
father's plays. [Reading from a manuscript] 
" Twelfth Night or What You Will." [Turning 
[56] 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

the pages, reads] " She sat like patience oh a 
monument, . . ." 

ArfNE. 'T is foolish trash. 

Susanna [turning another page, reads] " Too 
old, by heaven, let still the woman take an elder 
than herself: . . ." 

Anne. An elder ! Did he write that ? Even 
from the grave he taunts me with my age ! 

The Nurse reenters 

Nurse. The Vicar is without. 

Dr. Hall. Show him in. 

Nurse. Aye. Exit Nurse. 

Susanna [pointing to the clothes and the marvw- 
scripts] Put them back. Don't let the Vicar see 
them. 

Dr. Hall. There is no time. 

[The others set themselves to rights to receive 
the Vicar -fittingly. Anne is on the point of burst- 
ing out in a tirade against her late husband, but 
is silenced by the f roams of the others.] 

The Nurse reenters, followed by the Rev. John 
Ward, Vicar of Trinity Church, Stratford. 

The Vicar [noddmg to eacK] Susanna, Judith, 
Mistress Shakespeare. [When Anne is addressed 
as " Mistress Shakespeare" her face beams.] Ah, 
you are all gathered here in grief, so let me bring 
the comfort that I may. The Doctor 's told me all, 
and I feel deeply with you ; and though my calling 
bids me tell the truth, my heart would temper it 
with charity and let the scandal of your father's 
life be buried with him in the grave. Although an 
[57] 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

actor, without the law, without the Church, the 
burial will be with the full service for the dead, as 
with peace-departed souls. His last few years in 
Stratford have done much to quiet talk of what 
had gone before and justify me in the course that 
I shall take. And you must bend your thoughts 
to build a pretty legend round his life, of honor, 
truth, and simple loyalty. 

Anne. Ah-h-h. [The others quiet her with 
their looks.'] 

The Vicar. No fitter monument can you erect 
to him you all held dear than the report of good 
repute after his death. [To Dr. Hall] Take me 
where he lies and I will read a prayer to rest his 
soul. Come, join me, all. 

[Dr. Hall leads The Vicar to the inner room, 
Judith and the Nurse follow. The chimes strike 
the half-hour. Susanna and Anne start to go, but 
seeing the pile of manuscripts, go over to it. 
Susanna picks up first one and then another of the 
manuscripts, looking them over with curiosity.] 

The Vicar [ within] " I am the resurrection and 
the life saith the Lord, he that believeth in me, 
though he were dead, yet shall he live ; and he that 
believeth in me shall never die." 

Anne. And now they pray for him. Bah ! 

The Vicar. " Despise not thou the chastening 
of the Lord, nor faint when thou art rebuked 
of him: for whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, 
and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth. 5 ' 

Anne [kicking at the manuscripts with her toe] 
What will you do with these things? 

Susanna. They should be destroyed. 
[58 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

The Vicar. " Be not deceived ; God is not 
mocked." 

Anne. Aye, that they should ! 

The Vicar. " God is not unrighteous that he 
will forget your works and the labor that pro- 
ceedeth of love ; — " 

Judith [coming to the door from the inner 
room, to Susanna and Anne] Come. 

Anne. Nay, that I '11 not. 

Judith. Please, go in. 

Anne. Well. [She goes up to the door.] 

The Vicar. " Come unto me all ye that travail 
and are heavy laden, and I will refresh you." 

Anne [in the door, turning to Susanna and 
Judith] But I '11 not pray! Exit Anne. 

The Vicar. " In the midst of life we are in 
death, of whom may we seek for succor but of 
thee, Lord, who for our sins art justly dis- 
pleased." 

[Judith watches Susanna as she reads the 
manuscripts.] 

The Vicar. " Ye that do truly and earnestly 
repent you of your sins and are in love and charity 
with your neighbors, and intend to lead a new life, 
following the commandments of God — " 

Susanna. Judith, listen ! 

The Vicar. " And walk henceforth in holy 
ways — " 

Judith. Yes. 

The Vicar. " Draw near with faith — " 

[Judith closes the door, shutting out the voice 
of the Vicar, and comes to Susarina.] 

Susanna [reads^ " The evil that men do lives 
[59] 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

after them ; the good is oft interred with their 
bones." 

Judith. Yes, the evil does live. 

Susanna. But we can help to bury it. 

Judith. Susanna ! 

Susanna. Judith, that is a message from 
father to us; he feared the evil of his life would 
Live after him and wished that we destroy all 
knowledge of it. 

Judith. I wonder? 

Susanna. That is as the Vicar advised. 

Judith. Yes, it is; but — [Dr. Hall opens 
the door to the inner roow.] 

Dr. Hall. Come, the Vicar '11 think it strange. 

Susanna. We '11 be there presently. 

Exit Dr. Hall. 

The Vicar. " Man that is born of woman hath 
but a short time to live and is full of misery, he 
cometh up and is cut down like a flower, he fleet h 
as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one 
stay." 

Judith. What shall we do? 

The Vicar. " If any man sin he hath an advo- 
cate with the Father, and he is the propitiation 
for our sins. Lift up your hearts." 

Dr. Hale, Anne, and Nurse [within, hi re- 
sponse] " We lift them up unto the Lord." 

The Vicar. " Let us give thanks unto the 
Lord." 

Dr. Hale, Anne, and Nurse. " It is meet and 
right so to do." 

Susanna. We must burn them. [She takes a 
handful of the manuscripts and throws them on 
[60] 



"THE GOOD MEN DO" 

the fire. They burn, filling the room with a warm 
light.] 

Judith. No, no. 

The Vicar. " It is very meet, right, and our 
bounden duty that we should at all times, and in 
all places, give thanks unto thee, O Lord." 

[Judith takes the unfinished manuscript from 
the table and holds it to her, as if to keep it away 
from Susanna.] 

The Vicar. " He that soweth plenteously shall 
reap plenteously; let every man do as he is dis- 
posed in his heart." 

[Susanna continues to throw the manuscripts 
on the fire until she has burned them all.] 

The Vicar. " Thou knoweth, Lord, the secrets 
of our hearts, shut not thy merciful ear to our 
prayer." 

[Susanna sees that Judith has the unfinished 
manuscript; she takes it from her.] 

The Vicar. " We brought nothing into the 
world, and it is certain that we can carry nothing 
out. The Lord giveth and the Lord takcth away, 
blessed be the name of the Lord." 

[Susanna throws the unfinished manuscript on 
the fire.] 

The Vicar. " Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, 
dust to dust, in certain hope of eternal life." 

Susanna [with a beatific smile, for she has done 
her duty] The evil is buried with him. 

Judith. And only the good shall live. [Su- 
sanna and Judith go into the inner room to join 
in prayer at their father's side.] 

The Vicar. " Lord, now lettest thou thy serv- 

[61] 



• THE GOOD MEN DO" 

ant depart in peace, according to thy word, for 
mine eves have seen thy salvation, which thou hast 
prepared before the face of all people, to be a light 
to lighten the Gentiles ; and to be the glory of thy 
people — " 

SLOW CURTAIN 



T62] 



TWO CROOKS AND A LADY 1 

BY 

EUGENE PILLOT 

1 Note: The author acknowledges his indebtedness to a short 
story, "Fibre," by Richard Washburn Child, which suggested 
the play. 



CHARACTERS 

Miller The Hawk 

Lucille His accomplice 

Mrs. Simms-Vane 

Miss Jones Her companion 

Police Inspector 

Garrity A policeman 



First produced by The 47 Workshop, November 16 and 17, 
1917. 

Copyright, 1917, by Eugene Pillot. 

Permission for amateur or professional performances of any 
kind must first be obtained from The 47 Workshop. 



TWO CROOKS AND A LADY 

Scene : Library in the old Fifth Avenue mansion 
of Mrs. Simms-Vane. It is an old-fashioned, thor- 
oughly substantial room and an ideal setting for 
its owner. French wijidows, overlooking Fifth 
Avenue and extending to the floor, are in the 
middle of the rear wall. Bookcases on each side 
of them extend to a door at rear right and to a 
writing desk at left front. There is a chair near 
the window, one by the table, and one by the desk. 
Prominent among the usual desk fittings must be 
a small gold stamp box. A waste-paper basket 
stands beside the desk, in full view of the audience. 
Several porcelain vases are placed about the room. 
A long: library table, holding two brass candle- 
sticks, is at right front. Just above it, on the 
right wall, a large, long mirror hangs so that it 
reflects the opposite side of the room. 

Peace: New York City. Time: The present. 
About three o'clock on a rainy afternoon. 

The curtain rises on an empty stage, rather 
dark because of the rainy day and the drawn cur- 
tains. The French window in the rear opens cau- 
tiously and Miller stealthily slips into the room. 
He is a tall, handsome man — the usual type of 
gentleman crook who has emerged from the bot- 
tom of his nefarious profession. He wears a dark 
raincoat and a soft black hat, pulled down a little 
[65] 



TWO CROOKS 

over his eyes. As he starts to advance into the 
room, approaching footsteps are heard off right. 
Frightened, he slips behind the heavy curtains at 
the window. 

Lucille enters from the door at right. She is 
in the conventional white apron and cap of a well- 
groomed parlor maid. She stops for a moment 
to tidy the table, glances up at the mirror, and 
starts to make a slight readjustment of her cap. 
Suddenly she realizes that it is too dark for her to 
see, goes to the window, and quickly pulls back 
the curtains, flooding the room with light and re- 
vealing Miller. The moment she sees Miller, she 
jumps back frightened. 

Lucille [ma loud voice] Miller ! 

Miller [frightened, he comes forward cau- 
tiously'] Don't shout ! 

Lucille. You nearly scared the life out of 
me! 

Miller. Don't tell it to the whole house. 
[Glances toward door.] Lucille, anybody about? 

[Throughout the following scene, Lucille and 
Miller give their lines quickly, feverishly, for 
they fear that they may be interrupted at any 
moment.'] 

Lucille. Not yet ; but they wheel Mrs. Simms- 
Vane in here every afternoon. You 're not safe 
here! [Tries to hurry him to the window.] 

Miller [catching her by the arm] Quick! 
Where does she keep the Thirty-three? 

Lucille [carelessly, as she jerks her arm away] 
Why should I tell you? 

[66] 



AND A LADY 

Miller. Going to hog the necklace yourself 
'stead of divvying up with me, huh? 

Lucille. No. 

Miller. Then what the hell 's the matter with 
you? 

Lucillev You 've been taking that Minnie 
out again ! 

Miller. Naw, I 'm on the level with you. 

Lucille [scornfully] Huh! 

Miller. Did n't I say we 'd get married 
soon 's we cop the necklace? 

Lucille [arrogantly] I know you said that. 

Miller. Then, what's in your craw? Jeal- 
ous again? 

Lucille. Why not? I've got everything 
staked on you ! 

Miller. And you can play it for all it 's 
worth. It '11 take both of us to steal the Thirty- 
three. 

Lucille. Miller, it 's a wonderful necklace. 

Miller. Worth forty thousand dollars. 

Lucille. Thirty-three blue-white diamonds. 
Would n't think an old dame would be so stuck 
on it! 

Miller. No more than we are. [Nudges her 
affectionately.] Now, where does she keep it? 

Lucille. In this room ! 

Miller. This room? 

Lucille. Yes, they say she comes in here to 
look at it ; but no one 's ever seen her do it ! 

Miller. Good enough ; we '11 cop it this very 
afternoon ! 

Lucille. How? 

[67] 



TWO CROOKS 

Miller. Listen, this is the dope. 

Lucille [eagerly] Uh-huh. 

Miller. Servants are off to-day, 'cept you, 
the cook, and the old dame's companion. Cook 's 
way down in the kitchen — and I 've fixed it to 
get the companion away. 

Lucille. How? 

Miller. Dennis is across the street — watch- 
ing this window. 

Lucille. Why? 

Miller. When the time 's ready, I '11 signal 
him with this handkerchief and right off the phone 
here will ring. You answer it. 

Lucille [puzzled] What's the game? 

Miller. Dennis is going to send a fake mes- 
sage — something about a phony check — that '11 
get Miss Jones out of the house. Want you to 
answer the phone so 's to be sure it 's Dennis. 
Then call her, understand? 

Lucille. Yes ! 

Miller. After that it '11 be plain sailing. 

Lucille. But Dennis '11 want some of the boot 
for doing that? 

Miller. Naw, I promised him a tenner if 
he 'd send the phone message and then beat it to 
the station and get a couple of tickets for us. 
[Murmur of voices from off right.] 

Lucille. Oh, they 're coming now. Better 
get away in a hurry ! [Miller runs to the window.] 

Miller. Don't forget to answer that phone ! 

Lucille. I won't ! They 're almost here ! 
Hurry up and get out ! 

Miller. No, I 'm going to stay right here. 
[68] 



AND A LADY 

Lucille. But they '11 see you ! 

Miller. No, they won't. I '11 slide behind 
this curtain. [He slips behind one of the window 
curtains, which remain partly open. He is com- 
pletely concealed. Lucille pretends to arrange 
articles on the desk, furtively glancing at right 
door.] 

From right enter Miss Jones, pushing an in- 
valid's chair in which is seated Mrs. Simms-Vane. 

[Miss Jones, the paid companion of Mrs. Simms- 
Vane, is a rather dull, systematic English woman, 
not in the least understanding her mistress, but 
as a result of long service, obeying her to the let- 
ter. Mrs. Simms-Vane, a hopeless paralytic for 
twenty years, cannot move her chin a quarter of 
an imch to left or right. Her body is rigid; her 
cheeks are webbed with the fine wrinkles of the 
years; her eyes are beautiful with patience ; and her 
mouth is lovely with the firmness of suffering. 
Once very beautiful, she is now, at the age of 
sixty, as inert as a faded flower. She wears a rich 
but simple dress of black silk with white lace at 
the throat. Miss Jones wheels the chair to left 
center, somewhat to rear, and facing the table and 
the mirror on the right wall. She lifts one of the 
invalid's hands and places it so that it rests easily 
on the arm of her chair. As she goes to the other 
side of the chair and arranges the other hand in 
a similar manner, Miller, with his eye on Miss 
Jones and watched by Lucille, silently steps from 
behind the curtain, glances out the window, gives 
a quick wave of his handkerchief — the signal to 
[69] 



TWO CROOKS 

the unseen Dennis — and slips behind the curtain 
again without being seen by either Miss Jones or 
Mrs. Simms-Vane.] 

Mrs. Simms-Vane [as Miss Jones starts to 
make a slight adjustment of the old lady's head 
against the back of her chair] No, to the right. 
[Miss Jones moves the head slightly.] Too much. 
More to the left. [Miss Jones moves the head 
a gam. ] 

Miss Jones. May I ask why you always want 
your head faced that way? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane [coolly amused] You may 
ask. 

[Mrs. Simms-Vane'' s tone causes Miss Jones to 
step back abashed, and she does not venture the 
question. The telephone on the desk rings. Miss 
Jones starts toward it; but Lucille has already 
picked it up.] 

Lucieee. I '11 answer it, Miss Jones. [Speaks 
into the telephone.] Hello — Yes — Yes! 
[Glances in direction of Miller.] — All right, 
I '11 call her. [Turns to Miss Jones] It 's for 
you, Miss Jones. 

Miss Jones. Thank you. [Goes to telephone] 
Hello — Yes — Oh, is that so ? — Very well. I '11 
be right down to see about it. — Thank you. 
Good-bye. [Hangs up the receiver and goes to 
Mrs. Simms-Vane.] Mrs. Simms-Vane, that was 
the Empire National Bank on the phone. 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Yes? 

Miss Jones. The cashier has discovered what 
appears to be an alteration in a check you gave 
Andrews, the grocer. They asked me to go im- 
[70] 



AND A LADY 

mediately to their down-town offices ; and I told 
them I would. 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Very well. 
Miss Jones [to Lucille] You will remain here 
with Mrs. Simms-Vane. There will be nothing to 
do for her. [Goes to the door at light zchere she 
turns and says to Lucille^ Even though it is rain- 
ing, she will take her daily ride at four as usual. 
By that time, probably, I shall return. 

Lucille [with a superior air] Very good, Miss 
Jones. 

[Exit Miss Jones. A moment's silence, then an 
outside door closes. Miller steps out from behind 
the curtain and beckons for Lucille to come to him. 
She does so and together they step out into the 
room and look threateningly at Mrs. Simms-Vane 
for a moment. They are now in her range of 
vision and she stares at them without the flicker of 
an eyelash.^ 

Mrs. Simms-Vane [calmly~\ Lucille, who is this 
gentleman? [Lucille fidgets.] Why is he here? 
| Lucille becomes more nervous.^] 

Miller [brushing past Lucille] I '11 do the 
talking ! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. I fear, Lucille, that I have 
been mistaken in you. 

Miller [to Mrs. Simms-Vane] Now, there'll 
be no nonsense ! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. I think I understand. 

Miller. Better for you, if you do ! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Sir, will you kindly step 
forward three or four steps? 

Miller. What for? 

[71] 



TWO CROOKS 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. I am unable, because of 
my infirmity, to turn my head; and I prefer to 
talk looking into the eyes. 

Miller [stepping vm front of Mrs. Simms- 
Vane^ We '11 not have much talk. [Quickly, to 
Lucille] You mind that door. [Points to door, 
which Lucille closes as Miller goes to the telephone 
and cuts its green cord. Resuming his position 
in front of Mrs. Simms-Vane] Now, Mrs. Simms- 
Vane, I '11 tell you why I 'm here. 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Yes? 

Miller. I come for the Thirty-three, and 
you 're going to tell me where it is. 

Mrs. Simms-Vane [slight surprise] So you call 
it the Thirty-three? 

Miller. Need n't pretend you don't under- 
stand what I 'm talking about. I ain't got much 
time. Now, where is it? [Points a menacing 
finger at Mrs. Simms-Vane' s face. She merely 
smiles and looks at him without making the slight- 
est movement.] 

Mrs. Simms-Vane [firmly, but softly] Sir, you 
have made a mistake to come here. 

Miller. Mistake? Ha! [Halfway laughs.] 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. It is true that I am a help- 
less invalid and cannot call for assistance; but 
there is that which will cause you to fail. You 
shall have a disaster. 

Lucille [as she comes to Miller, frightened] 
Oh, Miller, what does she mean? 

Miller [ignores Lucille. Speaks sneeringly to 
Mrs. Simms-Vane] You mean you'll call on God? 
Well, my nerve 's good for that stuff. 
[72] 



AND A LADY 

Mrs. Simms-Vane [referring to Lucille] Hers 
is not. [Miller turns and looks at Lucille, who 
has become very nervous.] 

Lucille. It's a lie! The old fossil! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane [a little, slow smile passes 
over her face as she continues in her calm voice] 
Nevertheless, I do not refer to divine assistance. 

Miller. Then, what do you mean? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. I think you will fail, be- 
cause you are not made of the material that suc- 
ceeds. You are both of the base metals — unre- 
strained, passionate, and vulgar. 

Lucille [her vanity is hurt] The idea! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Yes, and that is why you 
made a mistake to come into conflict with me. 

Miller. Bah ! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. At the very outset, sir, 
you made a mistake. 

Miller. Mistake — what mistake? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Almost your first words dis- 
closed the fact that you did not know where the 
necklace is laid away. 

Miller. You 're not very clever yourself. 
You 've just as well as admitted the Thirty- 
three 's in this room. 

[Jerks off his raincoat, throws it on the floor, 
and starts to search for the Thirty-three among 
the papers in the writing-desk drawers. Lucille 
still keeps guard at the door. Mrs. Simms-Vane, 
unable to turn her head, stares ahead at nothing.] 

Mrs. Simms-Vane [after a pause, in her same 
calm voice] Will you trust in one who has never 
broken her word to anyone? 
[78] 



TWO CROOKS 

Miller [stops suddenly and looks at Mrs. 
Simms-Vane] What are you trying to get at? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Suppose I promise to re- 
ward you [Lucille starts forward jealously'] both 
to the full? [Lucille sinks back relieved.] 

Miller. What are you giving us? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. The necklace is my most 
treasured possession, not because of its money 
value, but because my dear, dead husband gave it 
to me when we were young and very happy. 
[Lucille turns away, sickened by this expression 
of sentiment.] 

Miller. What's that got to do with us? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. That is why I will not 
have it taken from me. 

Lucille. Listen to her! 

Miller [coarse laugh] Ha! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Then look out for your- 
selves. I warn you. 

[Miller walks back until he stands in front of 
Mrs. Simms-Vane. Suddenly he takes a pistol 
from his pocket and thrusts the muzzle of it into 
her face.] 

Miller [growling] Where 's the thing hid? 
[Mrs, Simms-Vane slowly closes her eyes and 
slowly opens them again. He pushes the revolver 
nearer her.] Where 's it hid? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Do you think I fear that 
you will pull that trigger? 

Miller. Why wouldn't I? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Can you not see how beau- 
tiful that would.be for me — a hopeless invalid? 

Miller [not understanding] Huh? 
[74] 



AND A LADY 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. But it is too much to hope. 
You would not shoot me. 

Miller. I '11 soon show you ! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Ah, no, that would make 
a noise. 

Miller [impatiently'] What if it did? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Then you could not con- 
tinue your search. No, I cannot hope that you 
will pull that trigger. 

Miller [realizing the truth of her words, 
drops the pistol to his side.] You 're a tough old 
nut. 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Thank you, sir. That is 
very kind. 

Miller. Bah! [Then to Lucille] Pull out 
the books, girlie. We 've got to frisk the whole 
room. 

Lucille [coming forward] All right ! 

Miller. Go through it systematic and fast; 
and look in the vases ! 

Lucille. Yes, yes ! [Begins to execute his 
commands.] 

Miller. Remember, she said it was " laid 
away " — • that 's the cue. 

Lucille. Uh-huh. 

[Miller returns to the desk, tosses papers and 
boxes to the floor, opens the stamp box on the 
desk, finds a locked drawer, and feverishly splin- 
ters it open. Lucille is hastily pulling out the 
books from the shelves and searching the wall 
behind them for any secret hiding place of the 
necklace. The room is in a welter of disorder. 
Finally, Miller returns to his revolver which he left 
[75] 



TWO CROOKS 

on the table as he made his rounds of the room, 
stares down at it, and bites his lip.] 

Miller [growling] Damn ! Time wasted ! 
[Looks at Mrs. Simms-Vane and takes a pair of 
steel pliers from his side pocket, opens them, and 
looks down at them. ] It 's rough work ; but it 's 
got to be done. [Goes to Mrs. Simms-Vane and 
closes his hand over one of her white wrists. Her 
fingers move a little.'] Huh! There 's some feel- 
ing in this hand. I thought so. [He slips the 
toothed jaws of the pliers between the thumb and 
forefinger down upon the soft flesh in the crotch 
of her thumb and closes the pliers upon it.] Now, 
where 's the necklace? [Mrs. Simms-Vane silently 
stares at him.] Better tell. [She merely closes 
her eyes.] You better tell! [Lucille shudders as 
she sees that he is squeezing the pliers in his tight- 
ening grip. ] Curse you ! Out with it ! Where 's 
the necklace? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. That is painful; but I do 
not think pain will ever be my master. I shall 
not tell you. 

Lucille. Stop ! Stop, Miller ! The blood 's 
coming ! 

Miller. Let it come. 

Lucille. But she won't tell ! Oh, you 're 
crushing the flesh ! Stop ! [Starts to pull him 
away. ] 

Mrs. Simms-Vane [opening her eyes] Ah, she 's 
weakened ! I said you were both made of inferior 
stuff. This French doll of yours, sir, was willing 
to see you torture an old lady who cannot move 
and yet a few drops of red blood make her cry 
[76] 



AND A LADY 

out. What a pair you are — - all boastfulness ; 
but your nerves are made of shoddy. [Miller 
drops the pliers in his pocket, looks at Lucille, 
and sneers.] 

Lucille [to Miller] Don't ! Don't look at me 
like that! 

Miller. Why not? The old dame 's right 
about us. [Outside, a clock strikes three o'clock.] 

Mrs. Simms-Vane [fretfully] It 's three. I 
ordered my hot milk for three. 

Miller [wheeling toward Lucille] The cook '11 
bring it in? 

Lucille [sullenly] Perhaps. 

Miller. Quick, then ! Go to the kitchen. 
Say she sent you for it. I '11 take another look 
round the room. [Lucille shrugs her shoulders 
and exits. Miller starts to search in the desk 
drawers again.] 

Mrs. Simms-Vane [sees him in the mirror] 
Young man, I see you 're searching in those 
drawers again. I would not waste my time doing 
that. 

Miller [startled] Why not? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Perhaps I will tell you 
what you wish to know. 

Miller. What? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Come and stand in front 
of me. 

Miller [he does so, staring at her.] Well? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. You may be surprised, 
sir, to hear that I cannot help admiring the bold- 
ness you have shown in coming here. 

Miller. Aw, what are you giving me now? 
[77] 



TWO CROOKS 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. I have always been at- 
tracted by ability, wherever it showed itself and — 

Miller [with contempt] Words, words. 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. No-o, but you are a hand- 
some young man, and it is a pity that your mag- 
netism and power should be thrown away on such 
a worthless young woman as Lucille. 

Miller. Aw, Lucille 's all right. 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Pah ! You saw her cringe ! 

Miller. Well ? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. A pretty face — that 's all 
she is. And you are infatuated with her — you 
who could win women far above her class. She 
stands in your way. This very occasion is an 
example of it. 

Miller. What are you driving at? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. In the next fifteen minutes 
she may cost you forty thousand dollars. 

Miller [leaning nearer] How 's it figured? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. I don't trust her; but I 
could — trade with you. 

Miller. Trade? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Did it not occur to you, 
sir, that forty thousand dollars is very little to 
me? If I spent it, it would be charged to my 
heirs. 

Miller. What 's that got to do with the 
Thirty-three? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. I would willingly send you 
a check for the amount, if you would go away. 

Miller [scornfully] Huh! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. But it is too much to ask 
[78] 



AND A LADY 

you to take my word for that. However, I could 
take yours. 

Milder [eagerly] Yes? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. But not if Lucille were 
involved. 

Miller. Why not? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. I love those stones the 
most of all material things — and I would not 
trust them to her. 

Miller [glances toward door, then leans nearer 
to her, alert] How's that again? Talk faster. 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. I cannot. I meant that if 
I could trust you — you alone — with the neck- 
lace until I could arrange to buy it back from 
you, I would pay you more for it than its ap- 
praised value. 

Miller. How much more? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Twenty-five per cent more. 

Miller. I'll do it! Where's the necklace? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. But I fear the girl. 

Miller [discounting her] Oh, that girl? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Yes, you love her; and a 
man in love is not to be trusted. 

Miller. Aw, she 's not the only girl I got. 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. O-oh — and still I 've no 
doubt you have even agreed to share your gains 
with her. 

Miller. Well? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. It is that which has in- 
vited my contempt. 

Miller. I never promised her a split. Be- 
sides, I know you 're right about Lucille. 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Then twenty thousand 
[79] 



TWO CROOKS 

dollars is a high price to pay for this cheap little 
creature's favor. 

Miller. Don't have to pay it — unless she 
knows I 've got the sparklers. 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Would you then? 

Miller. Yes, she 's a little wildcat, and she 'd 
squeal on me. 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Then you mean that you 
would not reveal to her that you have the neck- 
lace ? 

Miller. Sure. 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. You mean that you would 
give me the chance to purchase back the diamonds 
from you? 

Miller. Yes. 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. You mean that you would 
promise to take nothing else from this house? 

Miller. What else is there? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. There is a stamp box on 
the writing desk. You opened it. I heard its 
click. 

Miller. What of it? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. It is made of solid gold. 

Miller [surprised that he should have missed 
such a valuable article, picks it up and stares at 
it] Gold? That made of gold? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Yes. 

[Thinking Mrs. Simms-Vane cannot see him, 
he starts to pocket the stamp box. She sees his 
movement reflected in the mirror and gives a low 
chuckle of satisfaction. He is startled, not quite 
sure whether she saw his action or not. Quickly, 
[80] 



AND A LADY 

but reluctantly, he puts the stamp box on the 
desk.] 

Milder [in an over-generous tone] Well, what 
of it? I'd play straight; but how do I know 
that you — 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. You would have the word 
of Justinia Simms-Vane. Her honor has never 
been questioned. It would last as long as your 
own. 

Miller [stares at her a moment] I 'm no fool. 
Lucille 's not worth the fuss. Where 's the neck- 
lace? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Come near me. [He does 
so.] Open the buttons of my dress. 

Miller [accusingly] But you said it was 
" laid away." 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. I chose my words care- 
fully. Open my dress. 

Miller [opens her dress and sees the necklace 
round her throat] Judas Garry owen! She wears 
them ! What stones ! What stones ! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Take it quickly. [He does 
so and, at once begins to pick the stones from their 
settings.] What are you doing? 

Miller. Aw — [He is too busy to explain.] 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. I say, what are you doing? 

Miller. Picking the stones from their set- 
tings. 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. But I don't understand — 

Miller [picks out remaining stones] Just 
a way we have. [Drops chain into wastebasket.] 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. What was that noise? 
[81] 



TWO CROOKS 

Miller. Chain going into the basket. I take 
no chances. 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. But you will do me the 
favor to button my dress. Lucille — 

Miller. Yes, yes ; but look at them ! [Gloats 
over diamonds.] Thirty-three perfect ones ! A-ah, 
what a handful! Look! [Holds them before 
her. ] 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. They are pretty; but my 
dress — 

Miller. All right. [Drops stones in his right 
pocket, fastens her dress, and starts to adjust 
her lace collar.] 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. I hear Lucille bringing — 

Miller. How you going to put her off the 
scent? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Leave that to me. If you 
are the gentleman I think you are, you will have 
her give me the milk. 

Miller. Well; but how will you fix her? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Just continue your search. 

Miller. But I 've finished this room ! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Then try the next ; but 
leave the girl to me. 

Miller [takes out the diamonds, looks at them 
a moment] All right. [Walks away.] But 
don't you play any tricks on me. 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Sir, that will depend upon 
you. 

[He misses her inference and, starts going 

through the drawers again. Suddenly, Mrs. 

Simms-Vane hears him stop. Reflected in the 

mirror on the wall before her she sees him reach 

[82] 



AND A LADY 

for the gold stamp box on the desk, slowly grasp 
it, and put it in his pocket. She sighs and closes 
her eyes. Lucille appears in the doorway, carry- 
ing a tray which holds a tall glass of hot milk.] 

Miller [seeing Lucille] You got the milk, huh? 

Lucille. Yes, but the cook wanted to bring 
it in herself. 

Miller. Well, I 've frisked the room all over 
again. 

Lucille. What 'd you find? 

Miller. No luck. The old lady 's done us. 

Lucille. Look some more. We got lots 
more time. 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. I want my hot milk. 

Lucille. Forget it! [Sets tray on the table.] 

Miller [over-generous] No, give her the milk. 

Lucille [surprised] What 's come over you? 

Miller. Come here. [Lucille does so. Half 
whisper] Listen, give her the milk and keep her 
busy. Do anything. 

Lucille. What for? 

Miller. I want to see if there 's anything 
worth picking up in the other rooms. 

Lucille. But — ? 

Miller. Go on ; give her the milk. 

[Astounded, Lucille stares at him; but she 
takes the milk to Mrs. Simms-Vane. Miller wan- 
ders through the door into the adjoining room. 
Again and again his shadow appears near the 
doorway, as though he were watching the women.] 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. You forget, my dear, that 
I cannot move. Put the glass to my lips. [Lu- 
cille does so.] A little nearer. [Lucille puts the 
[83] 



TWO CROOKS 

glass nearer Mrs. Simms-Vane^ s lips.] The other 
side. | Peeved, Lucille glances at her; but moves 
the glass to the other side of Mrs. Simms-Vane*S 
mouth.] What's that? Dirt? Is that dirt in 
my milk? [Impatiently, Lucille looks at the milk, 
-Whispering] Do not show any surprise, Lucille. 
Keep looking at the milk. 

Lucille [whispering] Yes. 

Mrs. Simms-Vane [whispering] He has the 
necklace ! 

Lucille [whispering] Oh! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane [whispering] If you show 
him that you know, he will kill you. Don't move! 
[Loudly] Is it dirt in my milk? Look again. 

Lucille. I'm trying to see. [Whispering] 
You 're trying to make a fool of me ! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane [whispering] No, but he has 
tricked you and means to leave you to your fate. 
He has the diamonds ! 

Lucille [whispering] Oh! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane [whispering] The necklace 
without the stones is in the wastebasket. The 
revolver — is on the table. 

Lucille [in hushed voice, as Miller enters] Oh. 

Miller [seeing Lucille's suspicious attitude, 
turns to Mrs. Simms-Vane] What are you trying 
to do — cut Lucille off from me? [Lucille looks 
away.] 

Mrs. Simms-Vane [significantly] Did you find 
it — what you came for? 

Miller [hesitates, then sullenly] No. [Starts 
to look in the bookcases. Lucille sets glass on the 
[81] 



AND A LADY 

table, runs to the wastebasket, looks in, and utters 
a cry of rage. Miller turns swiftly.] 

Lucille. You've got it, you dog! \ Bo th- 
rush for the revolver. She gets it.] Stand back 
now ! 

Miller. But Lucille — 

Lucille. You double-crossed me — after I 
loved you so ! 

Miller. Listen, girlie, the old lady 's framed 
us. I love you, girlie. You know me. You get 
your share! This was the only way I could get 
the necklace ! It was all for you ! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Oh, Lucille, you little fool! 
The other woman is the one! 

Lucille. I thought so ! I 'm going to kill 
you! 

Miller [desperately] I love you ! 

Lucille. Oh! [Pained, she closes her eyes. 
Miller seizes a brass candlestick from the table 
and hurls it blindly at her, striking the wall be- 
hind her.] You dog! [She shoots. He falls to 
the floor.] Oh, what have I done? What have 1 
done? [Covers her face. Oat side a policeman's 
whistle is blown twice. Lucille is still too horrified 
by her crime to hear it; but Mrs. Simms-Vane 
smiles knowingly and closes her eyes.] 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. I said it would be disaster 
for him to cross me. He broke his agreement 
with me. He did not know that I could see him 
in the mirror over the table when he took the little 
stamp box. [Outside the police whistle again. | 

Lucille [hears whistle] O-oh, the police! 

[85] 



TWO CROOKS 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. And now, you are a mur- 
deress. 

Lucille [running to her] No! No! Please 
save me ! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. I wonder if you are really 
bad. I doubt it. You are too young to be put in 
jail. 

Lucille. You will save me? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. I shall tell a little white lie 
for you, if you deserve it. 

Lucille [piteous fright] Oh, if you oniy 
would! [Off right the doorbell rings. Lucille 
becomes more frightened and glances apprehen- 
sively toward the door.] 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. I shall say you shot him in 
defending me. But we must hurry ! That may be 
the police ringing now. 

Lucille. Oh! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Put the revolver in my lap. 
[Lucille does so.] 

Lucille. Oh, I don't deserve to be saved! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Never mind. Go put }^our 
hand in the young man's coat pocket. 

Lucille. Oh, no ! I 'm afraid to touch him ! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Do as I say. 

[Reluctantly, Lucille goes to Miller. She starts 
to reach for his pocket, shudders, and recoils from 
him.] 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. The right side. [Lucille 
is startled that Mrs. Simms-Vane should know the 
correct pocket; but she quickly thrusts her hand 
into it.] Do you feel the diamonds? 
[86] 



AND A LADY 

Lucille [gloating] Yes; here they are. [As 
she lifts the stones from Miller's pocket, she 
pauses, swiftly putting back a stray wisp of hair 
over her right ear.] 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Are you sure you have all 
of them? 

Lucille. Yes ! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. You did not leave a single 
one? 

Lucille [overconfident] No, I'm sure! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Then count each one and 
drop it into my hand. 

[Lucille is startled, and fears that she has been 
trapped, but quickly recovers her composure.] 

Lucille [counting the diamonds into Mrs. 
Simms-Vane's hand — the one that was not tor- 
tured by Miller] One, two, three — how wonder- 
ful they are! [Insistent ringing of the doorbell 
causes her to hasten her counting.] Four, five, 
six — [She quickly continues to count toward 
thirty.] 

[The doorbell has ceased ringing. An outside 
door opens and closes. A growing murmur of 
voices. A man exclaims, " But we heard a shot 
fired! " A woman replies, " But it could n't have 
been here! " The man, " We '11 have a look any- 
way."] 

Lucille [still counting] Thirty, thirty-one, 
thirty-two [a pause of surprise'] , thirty-three ! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane [suspiciously] Thirty -three? 

Lucille [bewildered, but relieved] Yes, thirty- 
three. 

[87] 



TWO CROOKS 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Then I have the stones my 
husband gave me, — all back again? 
Lucille. All. 

From right enter Miss Jones, in hat and rain- 
coat, followed by Police Inspector. 

Miss Jones [to Inspector] I '11 prove to you 
there was nothing — [Seeing Mrs. Simms-Vane, 
rushes to her.] Oh, Mrs. Simms-Vane, are you 
all right? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Yes. 

Miss Jones. Nothing has happened? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. No everything. 

Policeman Garrity appears in the doorway. 

Garrity [to Miss Jones, as he appears] Old 
lady safe? 

[Miller stirs feebly. Miss Jones sees him.] 

Miss Jones. Yes, but, Inspector [points to 
Miller], look! 

Miller [feebly] Hello, Inspector. 

Inspector [to Garrity'] Miller, the Hawk ! 
[To Mrs. Simms-Vane] Excuse me, ma'am, but 
who shot this man? 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. The maid. 

Lucille. I was defending her! 

Miller. That 'sa lie! The little cat was the 
" inside " on this job. We messed it up, and she 
shot' me. She thought I double-crossed her. 

Lucille. Oh, how he talks ! I never saw- that 
man before in all my life! Did I, Mrs. Simms- 
Vane ? 

[88] 



AND A LADY 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. My dear young woman, 
I tried to give you a chance. Now I advise the 
officers to arrest you. You were his accomplice. 

Lucille. But you said — you promised — 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Certainly. But in my 
necklace there were not the number of stones you 
counted out to me. You kept one. 

Lucille. No ! No ! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Yes, you did. The neck- 
lace was given to me by my husband on my thirty- 
fourth, not my thirty-third, birthday. You 
thought I did not know the number of my own 
stones ; so you kept one. 

Miller. Ha! That serves the little devil 
proper. But it's just like her! I know her 
tricks ! Look under the hair over her ears ! 

[Inspector and Garrity start to examine her; 
but she breaks away from them.] 

Lucille. Keep away from me ! I '11 give her 
the stone! [She reaches under the hair over her 
right ear and throws the diamond into Mrs. 
Simms-Vane' s lap.] You old hag! 

Mrs. Simms-Vane. Miss Jones [Miss Jones 
comes forward], have the officers take these per- 
sons away. 

[Miss Jones nods to the officers to remove 
Lucille and Miller. Garrity takes Lucille into his 
custody and they exeunt right. The Inspector 
helps Miller up and starts toward the door with 
him, where Miller turns round.] 

Miller [savagely to Mrs. Simms-Vane] You '11 
not beat us again ! [The Inspector pulls him out.] 

Mrs. Simms-Vane [serenely ignoring his re- 
[89] 



TWO CROOKS 

mark] Miss Jones [Miss Jones goes nearer to her, 
waiting], you may order my carriage as usual. 

[Miss Jones is surprised, but quickly nods 
assent and starts toward the door.] 

CURTAIN 



[90] 



FREE SPEECH 

A FARCE 

BY 

WILLIAM L. PROSSER 



CHARACTERS 

The Corporal 
The Prisoner 
Ivan 

NlKOEAI 

Feodor 

Boris 

Sergius 



First produced by The 47 Workshop, March 8 and 9, 1918. 
Copyright, 1917, by William L. Prosser. 

Permission for amateur or professional performances of any 
kind must first be obtained from The 47 Workshop. 



FREE SPEECH 

Scene: The courtyard of a prison somervhere 
in Russia. At the rear, a wall. In the center of 
the wall, two heavy iron doors, which open out- 
ward. On the left, the prison itself. Down left, 
the entrance to a passage leading into the prison. 

There enter, from the prison, a firing squad of 
five men, commanded by a Corporal. In their 
midst, a Prisoner. The men in the squad are Ivan, 
Nikolai, Feodor, Boris, and Sergius. 

The Corporal. Halt ! Left face ! Stand at 
ease ! Prisoner, step forward. 

The Prisoner. What is it now? 

Corporal. Listen once again to the sentence 
which has been passed upon you. 

Prisoner. I have heard it nine times already. 

Corporal. That does n't make any difference. 
This is the sentence of the court. [He reads] 
" The prisoner, Frederick Kraus — " 

Prisoner. My name is Spiegel. 

Corporal. What 's that? 

Prisoner. My name is Spiegel — Heinrich 
Spiegel. 

Corporal. You told the court it was Kraus. 
It does n't make any difference. [Reads] " The 
prisoner, Frederick Kraus, citizen of Germany, 
[93] 



FREE SPEECH 

having resided in Petrograd under the name of 
Dmitri Demochkin — " 

Prisoner. It was n't in Petrograd. It was in 
Pskov. 

Corporal. It does n't make any difference. 
Don't interrupt! [Reads] " — under the name 
of Dmitri Demochkin, has been twice tried on the 
charge of setting off explosions in two powder 
factories, and causing the death of three thou- 
sand people. He has been found guilty by unani- 
mous vote of a jury of twenty-nine loyal Maxi- 
malists — " 

Prisoner. They were all drunk. 

Corporal. " — and is therefore sentenced to 
be shot at by a firing squad until he is dead." We 
will now proceed with the execution. Comrades, 
attention ! The Prisoner is directed to stand over 
against the wall. 

[The Prisoner looks the Corporal up and down, 
stares coolly at the squad, shrugs his shoulders, 
and saunters nonchalantly over to the wall. There 
he turns.] 

Prisoner. I wish to speak. 

Corporal. What 's that ? 

Prisoner. I have something to sa}r. 

Corporal. You can't do it. 

Prisoner. I have the right of free speech! I 
demand my right to be heard ! 

Corporal. You have spoken already. Two 
full hours at the trial. That was why they found 
you guilty. It is too late now. 

Nikolai [stepping out from the ranks] What! 
Too late? 

[94] 



FREE SPEECH 

Prisoner [appealing to the squad] Comrades, 
I demand my rights ! 

Nikolai. Every man has the right to speak at 
all times, so long as no other man is speaking. 
Let us thank God, Comrade Corporal, that there 
is no longer any czarist regime over us to keep our 
mouths closed! [To the Prisoner] Speak, com- 
rade ! It is your right ! 

Corporal. Look here, this is going to delay 
the execution ! 

Sergius [stepping from the ranks] It makes no 
difference ! It is his right ! Speak, comrade ! 

Prisoner. Comrades, do you know who I am? 
I stand before you as the representative of Ger- 
many in an effort to bring about peace among 
nations. And do you know who it is that have 
condemned me? A court composed entirely of 
lower middle-class capitalists, inspired by the im- 
perialists of the Allied countries. [General as- 
tonishment, mingled with doubt.] The prosecutor, 
as I can prove absolutely, was a masquerading 
Kornilovist in disguise ! [Excitement.] The judge 
had held court under the former Czar — [con- 
sternation] and ten men on the jury even wore 
collars! [Horror and disgust.] Comrades! 
Are seven free men to subject themselves to idle 
aristocrats who are pampered by luxury? Com- 
rades, I ask you to refuse to recognize a decision 
of this counter-revolutionary and anti-democratic 
court as binding upon you. Is not democracy it- 
self speaking to you, comrades? Does it not cry 
out against the murder of one who has given his 
whole life to promote international peace? Com- 
[95] 



FREE SPEECH 

rades, I demand that you give me a vote of your 
approval, and express a want of confidence in my 
sentence ! 

Boris [stepping from the ranks] Bravo! Let 
me also speak! 

Corporal. Comrade Boris, you cannot — 

Boris. I have the right to speak as well as he ! 

Corporal. That does n't make — 

Prisoner. I yield the floor to you, comrade 

Corporal. That does n't make any — 

Ivan [stepping forward] He has the right to 
do it, Comrade Corporal. That is parliamentary 
law. 

Feodor. Speak, comrade ! 

Corporal. Look here, this — 

The Squad [threateningly] Speak, comrade! 
[The Corporal subsides.] 

Boris. Comrades ! Can anything be more 
atrocious than for us to permit the execution of 
this man, who speaks to us as an apostle and 
champion of the peace and liberty of the world? 
Does not the injustice of his condemnation cry 
aloud to the heavens against the infamy of the 
bourgeoisie — 

Corporal. The what? 

Boris. The bourgeoisie! The thieving middle 
classes, who wear collars and shave their faces. 
Comrades, let us abolish the middle class ! 

Feodor. I propose a want of confidence in the 
court which condemned the Prisoner! 

Corporal. Look here ! You can't do that ! 
That court has been selected by — 
[96] 



FREE SPEECH 

Nikolai. That does n't make any difference. 

Feodor. The Corporal is the representative 
of the court. I propose a want of confidence in 
the Corporal. 

Ivan. He is right ! 

Boris. Yes, yes, he is right ! 

Corporal. Comrades, I demand the right to 
be heard! 

Boris. No, no ! Want of confidence ! 

Corporal. It is my right ! 

Ivan. He has the right to speak. Be reason- 
able, comrades ! 

Sergius. Speak, then ! 

Feodor. Yes, speak! 

[The Corporal walks up and down the line, 
appealing to each individual in turn.] 

Corporal. Comrades, you are becoming very 
foolish. I solemnly protest against this condem- 
nation of the middle classes. I am a middle-class 
man myself, and I am just as good a revolutionist 
as any of you. And the court which condemned 
the Prisoner to be shot was just as revolutionary 
as I am. I ask, comrades, that you pass a reso- 
lution confirming the lawfulness of the Prisoner's 
death. I hope that you understand that the Pris- 
oner is a criminal, and that it is better to deprive 
one dangerous man of his life than to sacrifice 
thousands of useful lives in — 

Prisoner. I move to discontinue your speech, 
Comrade Corporal. 

[Silence. General amazement.'] 

Corporal. And by what right, comrade ex- 
[97] 



FREE SPEECH 

ploder of powder magazines, do you constitute 
yourself the chairman of this assembly? • 

Prisoner. There is no other chairman. 

Sergius. Let us elect one, then! 

Corporal,. We can elect one after we have 
shot the Prisoner. 

Feodor. We must elect one so that we can 
vote whether we are to shoot the Prisoner or not. 

Nikolai. How shall we elect him? 

Boris. Does anybody know how to be a chair- 
man? 

Ivan. I do. I know parliamentary law. 

Nikolai. Then let us make Comrade Ivan the 
chairman ! 

Feodor. I propose Comrade Ivan for chair- 
man. 

Boris. Yes, let Ivan be chairman. 

Sergius. Let us vote! 

Corporal [turning away in disgust'] There is 
no need. It is unanimous. Comrade Ivan is the 
chairman. 

Ivan. God is good. I will be thechairman. 

Nikolai. There is a motion before the meeting. 

Ivan. I do not remember any motion. 

Prisoner. Mr. Chairman, I have moved to dis- 
continue the speech of Comrade Corporal. 

Feodor. What was he speaking about? 

Boris. No matter what. He has the right of 
free speech ! 

Ivan. We must vote upon the motion first, 
and then speak about it afterward. This is par- 
liamentary law. 

[98] 



FREE SPEECH 

Boris. What is parliamentary law? 

Ivan. Parliamentary law is — why, it is what 
I say. 

Boris. Is it anything like the laws of the 
zemstvos ? 

Ivan. It is something like them. 

Boris. Then let us abolish parliamentary law ! 
Let us abolish all laws ! I am an anarchist ! 

Sergius. The anarchists are ruining the 
country ! 

Boris. The anarchists are the hope of the 
nation ! The anarchists are — 

Sergius. They are not ! 

Boris. They are! 

Prisoner [breaking in] There is a motion before 
the meeting! 

Feodor. What is the motion? , 

Prisoner [wearily] The motion is to discon- 
tinue the speeeh of Comrade Corporal. 

Sergius. It is already discontinued. 

Ivan. That makes no difference. We must 
vote upon the motion anyway. 

Nikolai. Is that parliamentary law? 

Ivan. It is. 

Sergius. Then let us vote ! 

Corporal [savagely] Yes ! Let us vote! 

Ivan. Very well, we will vote. All those who 
wish to discontinue the speech of Comrade Cor- 
poral will go to the right of the gate, and face 
that wall. All those who do not wish to discon- 
tinue it will go to the left of the gate, and face 
that wall. 

Boris. That vote is not fair! 
[99] 



FREE SPEECH 

Ivan. It is ! That is how the zemstvos vote. 

Boris. That does n't — 

Ivan. It does ! 

Sergius. Comrades, I cast my vote by going 
to the right. 

Nikolai. I go to the left. 

Ivan. Let us vote. 

[All cast their votes, each saying " right " or 
" left " as he does so. Boris, Sergius, and Feodor 
go to the right; Ivan and Nikolai go to the left. 
The Corporal and the Prisoner remain glaring at 
each other. The Prisoner sniffs contemptuously, 
says " Right" turns around and joins the three 
voters behind him. The Corporal snorts in dis- 
gust and goes to the left.] 

Ivan [to Boris^ You are not facing the wall. 

Boris. That does n't make — 

Ivan. It does ! You must face the wall. That 
is the rule. 

Boris. You are not facing the wall. * 

Ivan. That is different. I must count the 
votes. 

Boris. I will count them. 

Ivan. No, no! I am the chairman! Turn 
around ! 

[Boris reluctantly turns to face the wall. Ivan 
comes to the center, and counts on his fingers.] 

Ivan. Four votes have gone to the right, and 
three to the left. Therefore, the right has it. 

Feodor. Which was the right, now? 

Ivan. The right was to discontinue the speech 
of Comrade Corporal. 

[100] 



FREE SPEECH 

Feodor. Then I went to the wrong side. [He 
shoulders his gun and starts to cross to the left, 
but Ivan stops him in the middle of the court.] 

Ivan. The vote cannot be taken over again ! 
No, no ! 

Nikolai. That is n't — 

Ivan. It is ! 

Nikolai. It is not ! Speak, Comrade Cor- 
poral! [A slight pause.] 

Corporal. I have forgotten what I was going 
to say. 

Nikolai. God is good. [A pause.] 

Feodor. What are we to do now? 

Sergius [striding to the center] Comrades, I 
demand the right to speak ! 

Corporal. No, no, Comrade Sergius — 

Sergius [ignoring him] Comrades, the land of 
the people should be divided up — 

Ivan. Wait a moment ! This is a meeting. 
We must have a secretary. 

Boris. What for? 

Ivan. He is an official. 

Boris. Down with all officials. Let us have 
anarchy ! 

Ivan. You don't understand. This is a dif- 
ferent kind of official. He must keep the records 
of the meeting. 

Feodor. I will be the secretary. 

Ivan. You cannot write. 

Feodor. That makes no difference. 

Corporal. Blockhead ! How can you keep 
records when you can't write? 
[101] 



FREE SPEECH 

Feodor. Can you write? 

Corporal. Yes. 

Feodor. Then I propose that the Corporal 
shall be the secretary. 

Prisoner. I can write too. 

Boris. Then I propose that the Prisoner shall 
be the secretary. 

Sergius. Let us vote! 

Boris. This voting is all nonsense ! 

Ivan. Those who wish Comrade Corporal to 
be the secretary will go to the right of the gate. 
Those who wish the Prisoner to be the secretary 
will go to the left of the gate. Now let us vote. 

[They vote. Boris, Sergius, and Ivan go to the 
left. Nikolai goes to the right. The Corporal and 
the Prisoner cross to opposite sides, glaring at 
each other as they meet on the way. The Corporal 
votes right, the Prisoner left. Feodor is left 
standing alone in the center of the courtyard.] 

Feodor. Which is the right, and which is the 
left? 

Corporal. Booby! How did you vote the 
last time? 

Feodor. I don't remember. 

Ivan. Do you want the Corporal or the Pris- 
oner to be the secretary? 

Feodor. I don't know. 

Corporal. Answer the question, you fool ! 
Whom do you want to be the secretary? 

Feodor. I want to be the secretary. 

Corporal. Idiot ! Come here ! [Feodor 
comes to the right wall.] Now do you want to 
go back to the other side? 
[102] 






FREE SPEECH 

Corporal. He has voted. 

Boris. That vote is not fair! 

Ivan. It does n't make any difference. There 
are four to the left, and only three to the right. 
The Prisoner is the secretary. 

Feodor. Then what are we to do now? 

Sergius [stepping forward] Comrades, the 
land — 

Corporal [drowning him out] We must shoot 
the Prisoner! 

Nikolai. What for? 

Corporal. He is a criminal. He has been 
condemned to death by the court. He deserves 
to be shot. He has — 

Prisoner [very coolly] We have voted to dis- 
continue your speech, Comrade Corporal. [He 
draws a pencil and a notebook from his pocket, 
and goes up to the gate in the rear wall, where 
he sits down to write the records of the meet- 
ing.] 

Corporal [furious; pursuing him up toward 
the gate] You can't do that ! It is not — 

Ivan [intervening and stopping him] He can ! 
He is right ! We have voted ! That is parliamen- 
tary law! 

Sergius. Comrades, I demand to be allowed 
to speak ! 

Corporal [in desperation] Comrade Sergius, 
I beg you ! 

[Sergius shoves him aside, takes the center of 
the court, and begins to speak. Boris and the 
Corporal turn away in disgust: The rest listen 
with marked attention.] 

[103] 



FREE SPEECH 

Sergius. Comrades ! The land of the nation 
should be divided among the farming class. 
The workers of the people have labored for cen- 
turies under tyrants. They have tilled land that 
did not belong to them, and given the grain to 
the nobles. Comrades, they have earned the right 
to rule ! Comrades ! The rulers of to-day should 
not be the middle classes, nor the infamous capi- 
talists, nor the soldiers who are covered with 
innocent blood. They should be the farmers, who 
have earned — 

Boris [bursting forth] I move to discontinue 
your speech, Comrade Sergius ! 

Sergius [swooping on him] You are a fool as 
well as an anarchist ! 

Boris. You are a thief! 

Ivan [trying to separate them] Comrades! 
Comrades, do not quarrel ! 

Boris [trying to get at Sergius] He is a capi- 
talist ! He wears a collar ! 

Sergius. You are drunk! 

Feodor [to Ivan] I demand the right to speak! 

Boris. He is a Kornilovist ! He is — 

Sergius. You are a liar! 

Ivan [restraining Sergius] Silence! 

Corporal [between Boris and Sergius] Silence ! 

Boris. Down with everything! 

[Uproar.] 

Feodor [pursuing Ivan, and above the uproar] 
I demand the right to speak ! 

Ivan. Silence! Silence! Silence, Comrade 
[104] 



FREE SPEECH 

Boris! [Silence is partially restored.] Comrade 
Feodor has the right to speak and be heard! 

Boris. That is not — 

Ivan. It is ! 

Feodor [breaking in] Comrades, I propose 
that this meeting shall declare war upon those 
who are menacing the peace of the world ! 

All. Bravo ! 

Boris. Bravo ! Bravo ! 

Feodor. Let us join hands with those who 
are our brothers ! Let us try with them to pre- 
vent the slaughter! Let us declare war upon 
their enemies ! 

Ale. Bravo ! 

Feodor. Let us declare war immediately upon 
England ! 

Boris and the Prisoner. Bravo ! 

Sergius and the Corporal. No ! No ! 

Sergius. Let us declare war on Germany ! 

Nikolai. Let us declare war on both ! 

Boris [shaking his fist in the Corporal's face] 
You are a czarist ! 

Corporal. You are a fool ! 

Feodor. I demand the right to speak! 

Boris. Down with the government ! 

Corporal. Silence ! 

Ivan. Silence ! 

Boris. Down with everybody ! 

[General uproar. Ivan runs from group to 
group, and finally makes himself heard.] 

Ivan. Silence! Silence, comrades, silence, I 
say! Silence, Comrade Boris! [The turmilt 
subsides to a certain degree.] You cannot make 
t 105 ] 



FREE SPEECH 

a motion like that. It is not parliamentary law! 
[Complete silence.] 

Feodor. Why not? 

Ivan. It is not, because.I say it is not. 

Boris. Down with parliamentary law ! 

Feodor. You cannot make things true by 
saying they are true ! 

Sergius. He is right ! 

Nikolai. No ! No ! He is wrong ! 

[" He 's right! " " He 9 s wrong! " Renewed 
uproar.] 

Corporal [struck with an inspiration] Silence ! 
Silence, comrades ! Comrade Ivan is right. The 
motion cannot be made because there is already 
a motion before the meeting. 

Feodor. What is the motion? 

Corporal. The motion is — to shoot the 
Prisoner ! 

Boris. I do not remember any such motion. 

Sergius. Was there a motion to shoot you, 
comrade? 

Prisoner. No ! 

Corporal. Then I will make the motion now. 
I move to shoot the Prisoner. 

Prisoner [pushing past him, to Ivan] Mr. 
Chairman, I move to withdraw that motion, and 
shoot the Corporal instead. 

Corporal. You can't do that ! 

Prisoner. Of course I can ! 

Ivan [separating them] He can! He has the 
right to do it, Comrade Corporal! 

Feodor. Then I move to withdraw that 
motion, and shoot neither one of them. 
[106] 



FREE SPEECH 

Boris. No, no ! 

Nikolai. Yes, let us shoot neither the Cor- 
poral nor the Prisoner! Let us go out and find 
some capitalist, and shoot him instead ! 

Boris. Let us shoot all three ! 

Feodor. Let us vote! 

Ivan. What is the motion before the meeting? 

Feodor. I don't know. 

Sergius. Ask the secretary. 

Prisoner. There are two motions before the 
meeting. One is to shoot the Prisoner. The other 
is to shoot the Corporal. 

Ivan. We will vote on the first one first. We 
will vote whether we shall shoot the Prisoner or 
not. I will call out the names, and each man will 
say yes or no. Those who say Yes will go to the 
right of the gate. Those who say No will go to 
the left of the gate. Comrade Corporal ! 

Corporal. Yes! [He goes to the right, and 
stands facing the wall.] 

Ivan. Comrade Sergius ! 

[The Prisoner has risen, and opened one of the 
doors in the wall enough for passage. Seeing the 
Corporal's back turned, and the attention of the 
rest fixed on Sergius, he bolts out. The door 
closes behind him. His exit is unnoticed.] 

Sergius. Comrade, I insist that the land of the 
people — 

Ivan. No, no ! 

Corporal [facing about] Idiot ! We are vot- 
ing now! 

Sergius. That does n't make any — 

Ivan. It does ! Be still ! 

[107] 



FREE SPEECH 

Sergius [doggedly] It does n't make a — 

Ivan. How do you vote? 

Sergius. No ! 

Ivan. Then go and stand over there. And be 
silent! [Sergius goes to the left wall.] Comrade 
Nikolai ! 

Nikolai. Yes. [He goes to the right.] 

Ivan. Comrade Feodor! 

Feodor. No. [He goes left.] 

Ivan. Comrade Boris ! 

Boris. Yes! [He crosse,s to the right.] 

Ivan. How does the Prisoner vote? 

[A dead silence. With very blank expressions, 
all slowly look around.] 

Feodor. Where is the Prisoner? 

Nikolai. He is gone! 

Corporal. You fools ! You have let him get 
away! [He runs to the doors, and flings them 
open.] Run after him! 

[They crowd through the gateway into the 
street outside. Boris and Nikolai run to the left; 
Feodor and the Corporal to the right. Ivan and 
Sergius remain standing in the street.] 

Sergius. He is not in sight. 

Ivan. We do not know which way he went. 

[A short pause.] 

Boris [returning] It is hopeless to run after 
him. 

Feodor [returning] We could never catch him 
now. 

Nikolai [returning] God is good. 

[A pause. They come back into the court- 
[108] 



FREE SPEECH 

yard. The Corporal is the last to return. He 
stands in the gateway, surveying the squad, too 
full for words. Silence for a moment.} 

Feodor. What are we to do now? 

Boris. Who let him get away? 

Feodor. The Corporal! 

Boris. Then let us shoot the Corporal ! 
[Boris, Sergius, Feodor, and Nikolai immedi- 
ately level their rifles at the Corporal.} 

Corporal. What ! You are going to try to 
shoot me? 

Boris. You were ordered by the court to have 
the Prisoner shot. He was in your charge. You 
let him get away. You deserve death ! [He cocks 
his rifle.} 

Corporal. It was not my fault that he got 
away. 

Boris. It was ! 

Sergius. It makes no difference. 

Ivan [getting his first chance to speak} There 
is a motion before the meeting. 

Feodor. What is it? 

Ivan. To shoot the Corporal. 

Sergius. Let us vote ! 

Nikolai [lowering his gun} Wait, comrade ! 
Comrade Chairman, this meeting has now no 
secretary. 

Feodor. We shall have to elect one. 

Ivan. We must have a secretary. 

Boris. But it will delay the execution ! 

Nikolai. That makes no difference. 

Boris. But the Corporal is the only one who 
can read and write ! 

[109] 



FREE SPEECH 

Ivan. Let us elect him, then ! 

Boris. But we are going to shoot him ! 

Ivan. That makes no difference. 

Nikolai. I propose that the Corporal shall 
be the secretary. 

Feodor. Let us vote ! 

Ivan. All who wish the Corporal to be the 
secretary will go to the right. [General move- 
ment to the right. The Corporal seizes the op- 
portunity, and walks out the open gateway 
unnoticed.] There is no need to vote. It is 
unanimous. The Corporal is the secretary. 

Boris. Then let us shoot him. 

Ivan. Those who wish to kill the Corporal will 
say yes, and go to the right. Those who do not 
wish to kill him will say no, and go to the left. 
Comrade Nikolai ! 

Nikolai. Yes. 

Ivan. Comrade Feodor! 

Feodor. Yes. 

Ivan. Comrade Sergius ! 

Sergius. Yes. 

Ivan. Comrade Boris ! 

Boris. Yes ! 

Ivan. Comrade Corporal! 

[Again a blank silence. Boris wheels slowly 
about, and stands speechless. Nikolai turns more 
quickly, Feodor still more quickly, and Sergius as 
if on a pivot. Consternation.] 

Sergius. Why, he has gone too ! 

[Sergius, Ivan, Nikolai, and Feodor run to the 
gateway, crowd through it, and stand looking up 
[110] 






FREE SPEECH 

and down the street. Boris remains standing in 
the courtyard.] 

Boris. But we are unanimous ! He is con- 
demned to be shot ! 

Feodor. .He is not in sight. 

Ivan. He is gone. 

Nikolai. God is good. 

[They drift slowly back into the courtyard 
again. There is a pause.] 

Boris. Who let him get away? 

Sergius. He got away during the voting. 

Feodor. Who started the voting? 

Nikolai. Comrade Ivan started it. He is the 
chairman. 

Boris. Then let us shoot comrade Ivan ! 

[Four rifles are pointed at Ivan.] 

Ivan. You cannot shoot a chairman. That is 
not parliamentary law. 

[A pause. The rifles are lowered.] 

Boris. Then what are we going to shoot? 

Sergius. Who started the whole execution? 

Feodor. The court that condemned the 
Prisoner ! 

Nikolai. There were ten men on the jury 
who wore collars ! 

Boris. Comrades ! [He seizes Sergius by the 
arm, and draws the others together into a group.] 
Are free men to subject themselves to idle aris- 
tocrats who are pampered by luxury? Let us go 
and set fire to the courtroom, and kill the in- 
famous judges where they stand! Comrades! 
Follow me! [He draws Sergius out the gate; the 

[mi 



FREE SPEECH 

others start to follow. Sergius breaks free from 
his hold, and turns in the gateway to argue.] 

Sergius. No, no, Comrade Boris ! Let us 
reason with the men ! 

Feodor. And then they will take off the 
collars ! 

Boris. But if they do not listen to reason, let 
us kill them ! 

Nikolai. Let us go! 

Feodor. Yes, let us go! 

[They start going out the gate. Boris pauses 
to deliver one last oration.] 

Boris. Let us refuse to recognize the laws of 
a counter-revolutionary and anti-democratic body 
as binding upon us! Down with all judges! 
Down with all courts and all governments ! Let 
us have anarchy ! 

Sergius. No, no, Comrade Boris ! Let us 
have a democracy, with the right of free speech 
for every man. The anarchists are ruining the 
country; but a democracy with free speech is the 
greatest of all the gifts of God. 

Nikolai. God is good. 

[They go out, and are heard to pass down the 
street to the right. After a moment, the Prisoner 
steals in from the prison, carrying something un- 
der his coat. He goes to the gate, looks after 
the departed Russians, and laughs to himself. 

He returns to the prison wall, and takes from 
under his coat a fuse bomb. He plants the bomb 
by the prison wall, takes from his pocket a box of 
matches, and lights the fuse. He rises, and turns 
toward the gate once more. 
[112] 



FREE SPEECH 

As he turns he begins to whistle a tune. It is 
"Die Wacht am Rhein." He strolls out the gate: 
the whistling swells to a triumphal march, and the 
fuse burns on.] 

CURTAIN 



[113] 



